Wilderness births between those thighs
and they aren’t shy anymore to express.
Forests have a skin
Forests have truth,
is all they know and care to know
And how they are a forest too,
with trees of bones, and marshes of saliva
make them a bigger truth.
They – two beings, two travellers, two friends;
two souls in a forest
believing, combination is a hope called ‘one’;
nothingness is never empty, and
meaningless is the greatest meaning,
build a grass of depth and sit, measuring it with patience.
They touch the air.
They have come to converse with silence,
to take away some, to give some memories
as both know to endure and preserve sufferings.
Is it so?
Leaves cannot fake as humans,
they cannot be easily convinced.
I sneak in, as a slight change,
hanging as dusk;
as a Spidey on that damp trunk
Click! The flash lightning makes me silver
for a second
They noticed —
Are those their words?
Was it me?
Was it a glamour?
Why are they so interested in me
and not on those, who are burnt?
Those girls around them, now bones,
have always waited for them in Spring satins
and now they wait in Spring, without a satin.
Yes, I was there too, in that room
cobwebbing my question threads,
when the news flashed with a lightning
‘Wildfire breaks out’
I hanged down to the plug socket
The battery charger was an absence.
They take because sheds feel the need.
It doesn’t as openness helps wash
They will click, they will go
They like the new as a memory
Its new, soon becomes a petrichor
Forests are natural, they are not
They both said they love forests
and I also exist in those pair of eyes
who now see their love in posters on his wall
I look inbetween my thighs; how can forests be a truth,
when the truth in itself is a need.
‘Need’ to be kept,
‘need’ to be trimmed.