the early morning silence is good for me

i usually miss out on the sunrise,
but when i don't, i let myself soak in it

my fingers prune under the rays of a sun unreleased

this in-between --
the not quite day, but not quite night --
sets my world in motion

time stands still and life forms inside my window pane

bliss in a 5:30AM lilac sky

the early morning silence is good for me

I didn't even ask
To be your sun
Or your moon.

All I wanted
was to be
Your Sunday afternoons.

How many empty calendars spaces
I wasted,
Waiting for you.

Our goddess lives under a banyan tree
Deep in the forest. She paints
And sings songs, to put herself to sleep.

2. Royina, your dad paints too.

Tuesday evening, he paints skies
And at the dinner table, you wonder
Why he has blue on his throat.

Wednesday, he paints the sun.
His fingers are red with the flames
He doesn't read letters addressed to him
Because he's afraid
Of burning them black.

Friday, he doesn't paint.
Just sits by the lake, on a secluded bench.
Feeding pigeons. And hearing them coo.

3. Royina, remember the boy who held you
Last time you allowed yourself
To be kissed?

He played a guitar, you told me.
And he had long thin fingers, which fluttered,
From string to string.

He wrote you a letter when you left.
And you folded it eight times. Then put it
In your pocket. Tell me, Royina
Did you put it in your heart too?

4. What is it with creative people, Royina?

The writers and the guitarist and the painters.
Do they look at you like you are the magic you are?  
Do they tell you, no, you're not
Who you think you are.
There are so many shades under your skin
Let me peel off your inhibitions, and I'll show you.

5. Royina, their letters never reach you.

And they wonder why, homes are still called
Addresses.