This

Gerome-PeltMerchantofCairo

What is this?
This, which I feel in my veins,
The birds that circle at the front of my head,
Just below my forehead.
That I see every inch of you.

What is this?
This, which flows through my veins,
Warming my insides,
And curing the ulcer that erupts from my stomach,
As if I’ve swallowed every inch of you.

What is this?
This, that makes my veins pulse without control,
That there is a reverberation in my arteries,
And my heart constantly beats the syllables from your name,
That every word I utter contains letters from it.

What is this?
This, that makes me mad when all is calm,
That I’m at unrest and I search for where you might be,
An open chest, a beating heart, or that my thoughts now soar,
From the wings I’ve stolen from the infatuation.

What is this?
This, is that which this is,
That I’ve written this a weakling,
Barren from the smell of dead flowers,
As you’re absent from the core,
And this, this is how I peruse eternity in search of your touch.

– Smyekh David-West.

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