Your scribblings, rough, misshapen, premature
Blink timidly under harsh sunlight
And then retreat into their cocoon
You lose them, and you do not know you lose them
But they remain, waiting to open
Like night flowers under a half-done moon.
Your scribblings get wet sometimes, don’t they?
Moisten, smudged under tears that I only dream of
They struggle inside the labyrinth of your mind
Buried under the weight of guilt unaccepted
And consciences unclean
Like thieves, or uncrowned kings carrying crosses.
Did you know that I can read your scribblings?
Somewhere between what you, and your eyes say
They flicker like candles in thunderstorms
But if I am careful, I can cradle them between my palms
Lift them up, and carry them back with me
And scribble under their intimate glow.