Lips

 

Submitted by Daipayan Nair



 

 

I iron an illusion

and the skin is now a new bought shirt.

You wrinkle it once again for a sea.

I am noodled in a black nothingness

and from it, a seagull flock whispers,

‘We are patterns;

patterns disappear leaving alone a last skyline’

I see. The lips scatter in mine.

There’s an ‘everything’ in loss, I sigh.

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