Just as you unleash the olive curtains
With the desire of the golden smooches on your face,
You smell the sky strange
Like the rain is never going to stop again.
The gathered pile of storm clouds,
Turning the blues into oyster green
Foreshadowing troubled times,
In that thin line between your conceit and dreams.
Perhaps, you decide to go back to bed
Contemplating how to let your body consume the void,
Till you find a pallored body looking alike, already paused in your bed;
Drowning into the cold sheets,
Shrinking in numbness,
And You, evaporating away by the heat of conceit,
Turning the sky green with your liberated ashes!