There is a certain apricity in the way you speak
of labelled trophies and dark fields,
the battles you win and the nights
you surrender your head to darkness.
The muffled silences,
the melancholy on the walls, in the air,
resting on the windowsill.
The dust surely knows how to stay
and listen quietly as long as you want it to be.
While the Earth decides to revolve around the sun,
a scintillating fire glows in your heart.
A listless curvature of anxiety balling up
racing fast, mountains cracking, volcanoes erupting.
The moon is a witness to your riveting thoughts.
Faces are nothing but shadows of mannequins,