Your language is not on my tongue
as I stare at your speech. Better run
from you missing my miserabe heart.
Sacrafice the main point of hunt.
All I see is you touching my strings
with your fond, brave and lost fingertips.
All I hear is a sin which you bring —
without you, Pumpkin, I'm feeling sick.
Rain holds us by its silver lines
like you hug me. Perhaps, it's not lie
that I'm falling again as a lion
who's forgotten a cliff that was mine.
Let me be. Talk to me. Little bit.
You're at least is a whisper of leaves
of the tree which, maybe, doesn't live.
I wish, you could transfer the charm
of yours. Feather I squeeze in my arm
is creating the shapes of your bloom.
Sad but true: I'm the creature of blue.
Though I'm lying with thoughts in my head,
those thoughts I call bullet ahead.
Baby, what is your actual depth,
if I'm a deadman inside your breath?