I wanted to hear them hail from your lips
those stories,
speaking of portraits not painted yet,
journals empty not yet committed to the hue of sin
with a story opening without any end.
a diary of lovesick appraise, to become the sculpt of us
our mirror with adoring eyes...
but the pages were worn, at times full of ink
violet and ripe, nothing like me.
The flow of my hand is light as a dream.
Eila Mahima Jaipaul
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adultery-3/
