Call it Home

What does it take to own
a space? How do you create
something tangible out of
an idea? Do I change it?
Rearrange the furniture
and fence in the perimeter?
I like to remember those
ladies of my youth, who
couldn't see things they
didn't own. They stood in
crowds with ease and
belonged, no not belonged,
controlled. This was their audience,
to gaze at their poise,
to wonder at their confidence.
And, noone ever questioned
their validity in this space,
their ownership of it.

Youth Aflame

These years are written
in the sand, right on water's edge.
It is late nights, before
the tides rush in, before
the sun burst open
to reveal us. It is here,
in the darkness, where we find
each other and ourselves.
Sometimes I get nervous,
I see that the vastness
of water nipping at our scripts,
and I wonder of the future
of this. But, then I see your face,
all of you, burning smiles and
half shut eyes. That's what youth is,
burning. Written on parchment
and thrown into hot coals,
our skin slowly browns and withers,
but we go on burning.

What happened to the world,
while I laid by your side?
While you laid in my arms?
Because I felt still,
I felt you, just you.
Did the stars roll over
us? Where was the sun?
All I saw were these eyes,
dark, watchful eyes.
Is the world spinning,
or is it just our bed?