Her breath smelt of hope and helplessness,
never, have I tasted lips more loving,
she waited at the gates of selflessness,
longing, chest heaves,
and a tongue searching for belonging.
She knows not this poetry is for her,
all of it, an ode to her in secret,
let her think nothing of me, I’m not perturbed,
and prefer to write in concealment.
Poets aren’t famous when they walk,
when the day makes them sweat like all others,
but ironically our words come to life and infamy,
when all is said and done,
white cloths, and earthen covers.