Rendezvous

Wanting more of you
in the bed of moon,
where present and past
were disrobing.

The bee stings, O my god,
arrange the pure darkness
of milk,
hanging on persona of future.

The yielding was painful,
its blankness. You were
collecting the hooks. I was letting
free the fish.

Green was my perch
on the white paper,
rewriting your name without ink
for the sake of hunting the lamp.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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