At Your Door, The Night Closed Itself…

At your door, the night closed itself…
In this town, no story remained anymore,
In my words, no chattering disbeliefs…
My wing and your step don’t see the same flight
Yet… I left my hands as a seal on your forehead

At your door, the night closed itself…
You froze suspended as prolongation of me,
when you crumble, you fall over my precipice
but I cannot catch my soul from your wings,
and the thoughts run barefoot on the words’ edge.

At your door, the night closed itself…
Just listening to the late blossom,
and smell sunrises of your departures,
ceasing to gather each of your drop,
now, your eyes’ blade does not hurt… anymore…

At your door, the night closed itself…
I am crawling inside the corner’s words.
You are disheveled from my breathing,
my eyelids do not cradle your being
as I washed away your dusty lost traces.

At your door, the night closed itself…
That night which grew stems on my body
Not to depart, I stopped inventing caresses,
my knees are risen by other wind archways
and the sunrise’s root buried my teardrops.

Even you closed your night at this door
Still, the Love can sing in rainbows over me!…

(Anca Mihaela Bruma — 31st August 2015 — Strasbourg)
Copyright (c) 2015 by Anca Mihaela Bruma, All Rights Reserved, except the right to forward and to share with friends — with credit — which is held to be a good idea and is thus encouraged.