For Us

The friction of our pens on
Paper do not produce any
Sparks anymore. We survive
On the fringes—you the bitter
Sufi me the aspiring luddite.
Evenings would have been
Lonelier without you. The red
Disk fades over the half-moon of
the moss-colored minaret—meanwhile
friends desert one after the other.
We fumble along for streets
With our feeble coffee dreams.

Tonight I desperately need your
Blueberry skin to rest my chin