There are holes that uncolor on fruit

and the effervesence disassembles my heart,

but my holes won't follow

for I will hoard the dulcet of roses,

and furtively suffocate the hollow for you.

A nail-scratching shiver is lulling the light asleep;

it paralizes, chatoyant.

But I will hold my bells high

because the four winds shall sing

and I will wait, gazing into the dormant fire

as it breathes awake with a warm murmur.

The woods moan worried of the sun swallowed by clouds,

warned, I grab my bag and steal my way up their branches

to catch the tinkling fires and lights of the penumbra

before I bite my lips on the day I find coins on your eyes.