I am layers

Of conchshell

Over conchshell

Over conchshell

With love songs

And

Your sweet raspy voice

Echoing inside me.

They ask me,

Who is the one

Described in all my poems,

I tell them,

That he’s now

An unknown

Who refuses to look at my Poetry,

Even acknowledge it.

Who might as well be wrapped in a bubblewrap,

To protect what’s inside.

So that I would have to pop millions of bubbles,

Before I reach

His conchshells,

And my winged demons

Would whisper in the air inside them,

The love song

That we created when our breaths synced

And lips fumbled,

And finally,

I would ask him,

Softly, just like the sound of the sea,

If his shells

Ever echoed with one of my poems too.

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