It’s an afternoon in spring, I swallow my tongue.
First you take my name away, lovers label their possession.
Unused and flawless, a few pounds less, you redefine dignity and I nod.
I meet you at dewy hiding places, just a blink of an eye before eternal sunrise.
Nothing lasts long enough with you, the toothpick between your lips is chewed.
At dusk only teeth shine as white as plastic cups on sparse grass.
You couldn’t care less how much I fight for that single word, we both sleep somehow.
They call me everything except me. Even you have nothing more to say than جان میری
my heart unlearns to speak
in silence it pumps dull
As soon as you give me the name back, I enclose it in my soul.
dil (turkish): tongue, language
دل [dil] (urdu): heart
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