Whose mask, whose pupa
Who hides in a peanut shell of jazz
freezes its own expression
refuses prying; refuses to reopen love’s old wounds
In the cave of scars
the sound of ripples can be heard by a gentle touch
Dried apricots stick to the tongue taking off
lingering sweetly together
teeth lightly knock under drumming wings
Though proportions are amplified
distance and relation remain unchanged
A ball of thoughts often bounces back
heavier the strike, faster the rebound
The speed of a song
always fails to catch the heart’s warm flow
Avoiding authority
is totally different from avoiding the volcano
Suffocating and burning
you would prefer the latter