Your voice:
a million thorns,
stabs my confused heart.
I am forced to flee:
the burned houses;
shallow graves; and
anguished faces of the past.
I run towards the warmth of your body
as it wakes up from last night's sleep.
I can stay forever in this primordial cuddle:
in the undulating comfort of your breasts;
its soft, smooth curves.
But it is all a paper thin dream,
stretched in a distended horizon.
Nothing but a pashmina of comfort
burnt by the smile of the morning sun.