Purple plums and dangling grapes
leap out of living room art
mocking empty fruit baskets,
while the monsoons rumble outside –
loud and silver with a hint of gold,
swallowed by periodic darkness
like you and I.
I wear half a heart on each sleeve.
The cuts are easy to dry
when the sun burns brighter than
the pain does, but the rain,
it pummels into each cut,
throbbing persistently together.
You’re the saltiest sea, brimming
with wild waves of words, pulling
me under; my limbs are weary
with the weight of a thousand years
of hope.

Drowning never felt easier.