Sometimes when we speak 

When I have my head down

Or purposefully looking away

To curb the awakrndess

Of those twisted moments

Or when he recites poetry 

From the corner of my eye

I can see him staring at the

Mole on my upper lip

And I melt and die inside

Overwhelmed by all those

Whirpoool of emotions 

Only to be woken up

Again by life and dreams

And by that poke on my

Mole with those lost eyes

That deep lost tired

Stare that keeps me alive

The stare to seek the many things

That you want to hear 

But me silent and you vocal

Poetry with that stare 

Published by Sapience

A mere weeping dot in the universe.

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