To A Friend Who Reads.

No colour in your
Soul
Hides from me.

The length of
A night
Blanched in
Altercations
Is longer
Than all the days
We have lived
And known
Together.

And when words travel
From your home
After unsure rains,
They form a
Dawn brighter.

Infinitely so.

Pick up the pen,
That hides behind
Those heavy curtains,
Rummage your pockets
And
Build your own
Cob-webs.
To breathe, cry,
Pray like
A poet,
The coincidence
Of living like
A Maugham,
A Rimbaud, A Baudelaire.

To place Life on
Your nerves
And drink its
Pulse
Like a soul melting
Into yours.
To feel love
In infinity of words
In tomorrows.

There is horizon
Still,
Stretched on your bed
Where your heart
Beats,
In memory of all
That went past
Of all
That wants to be.