there are poems waiting to be breathed out
not a calm breath
but a breath struggling to take its full gulp
of air, the air that struggles to live
as easily as it did a few years ago
this air carries the stench of longing now
and these poems could never be inked on skin
but
there is a script
to the language of touch
a grammar to the language of taste
and now, probably
colours will punctuate our giving.
anthology of thirst... 