By Rakshdeep Sharma
When I will die.
My grave will melt.
I will be cold. I will like some rain.
It will be dark when I lay there. But rain better be greyer.
It will drink me. The mother.
My mother will drink my blood.
I would like to be cradled. I will be back in the womb.
Birds will beak me and I will be passed onto your face I am the white shit. Smile.
The girl. I died. My heart died for will be with some weakling on that bed I pulled sheets on.
Don’t crush the roses I kept for me. Burn them like you burned my heart.
But it’s no sacrilege.
The bodies are melting into each other.
I can see from my grave.
Don’t come to my grave.
My corpse needed you the night I wept for you.
Don’t disturb my silence. Let me sleep now.
Send quiet smokers. I like the scent of cigarettes.
Let it rain more. More grey.
My tears will vaporize. I will at last be the rain.
Maybe that weep will calm me.
I will jump in the clouds.
Smother in the caves of the ocean.
I will be back in stars.
I will be accelerating through the blackness. And if you are wishing. *** u.
I will be free from all mind all sorrow.
I will be a bird perching on suns.
Yet you know who will crave most for my blood.
Roses.
I have always passed them with a smile.
They want to kiss me. They want to fill me up within them.
I am dying. I have been told by the saint.
It’s just a few decades left.
I have not been able to kiss those sugar lips ever since.
What about you? Will you die?
I will miss my shirts.