I could smell the sun in you,
freshly squeezed it seems,
from the musty mould
that grows everyday-
in my furnitured brain.
Or, maybe, i smelt just you again.
Is it possible to possess?
As the night does,
clinging to its scent-
even as it melts-
in darkness,
and shadows,
and dreams?
Or, maybe, it's just loveless to possess.
I can still see the scribbles you nailed -
randomly,
on the already scratched
musty, mouldy wood.
They were measured
as life is -
in teaspoons.
Or, maybe, i should leave them undeciphered.
I can smell you again
here,
now-
in you.
That how 'this' whiffed out
perhaps-
for a measured while
from the musty mould
of the sprawled furniture
that is me.
Just tell me-
should i love
or
quit?
