day 71

Pouting, Kissing

during

the minutes you take from me
Whispering, linking

before

the seconds I steal your air
perpetually pouting

after

the wind messed your hair, the shadows departed
and the world belongs to two pairs of Lips:

this is where
those moments without each other collapse into a single moment:
and time catches up, and we stay still:

till lovers' lips crossed and seconds, minutes, and hours uncounted:

brushing,
again and again
awaiting,

(the colour of red to return to your cheeks.)