seeded cherries are your lips,
blood is our wine —
we drink from the mouth
of a night’s vestigial appendage,
when the sky speaks of ecstatic
pains & pining sighs of a merlot-
moon.
cinnamon rings are my eyes,
russet are our limbs —
we feed on the saplings
of our fingers, the perspiring
sacrilege of our arduous
dreams & deep lines of a copper-
eclipse.
.
© Anmol Arora
Day 7
(Inter)National Poetry Month
HA's Place 