Of sins and monsters
intertwined; Between
the pages of stale love stories,
verses of unfinished poetries,
and apostrophes, there is desire which
renders you sleepless even at 3 am.
How does one serenade the other when
love is just another monster sleeping
beside you, resolute in making you
a recipe of disaster and serve it with the first rays of sun.
The golden hyperbole of romanticism
chokes your ego into oblivion even before it
could bat its eyelashes.
I fall in and out of love even
faster than words leave my mouth, like tangerine promises
broken even before they were made.
My poetry is a lovechild born out of wedlock
when metaphors made love to the monster sleeping
beside me.
When is a monster not a monster?
When you desire for it and you smile back at it,
When its fingertips run through your spine
and you feel your cheeks flushing.
You live under the tender wraps of a
hibernating disaster
intertwined between;
the pages of stale love stories,
verses of unfinished poetries,
and apostrophes.
