Souvenirs Of the Heart

No dress with flower patterns

This is not Indochina, a world obsolete

My skin, is the color of flame

Burning

To the Winter sunlight

Windows of neighbor so distant,

a world separated, there are no faces behind

Or I maybe be blind

Man travels the world eating food, and

falls in love unintended

Two years to the day

The color red is fresh as blood from the new wound of paper cut

The book with the Note on the Rapture to His True love

collects dust until I open it and see her in green dress

There she happily stays, still and smiling

Between the covers of black

between the pages of creamy paper

your finger once caressed gentlely

and your hands at rest, while asleep

on my body, flowing yet quiet

ready to rise