September arrived like
two patrolling cars to comfirm
if I am still a criminal.
And my salty eyes gave away.
Yes, I am fugitive who still runs away from the feeling of lonesome,
from the unacceptability that it’s belongingness has been uprooted.
Like a twig whose Tree has been lost
like a tongue who lost its taste buds,
like a guitar whose strings stopped producing melodies
like an invisible faded light of a tea-candle
in a sky full of trembling fireworks.
September inspects the universe I created
of self-fulfillment, of gratification
and catching me red-handed with
a black hole of anxiety that kept forming
in a middle of my saviour cosmos
gradually engulfing my nerves to glory
bringing me back to a virtual reality
like someone who lost his lover to amnesia.
The one that existed and didn’t
at the same time.
Does getting older makes you
or better at hiding?