Your face.
My lips could run over your face
with only six kisses,
three from the left
and three from the right side,
no obstacles, no sprints,
softly enough and with enough instinct,
in the same manner my tongue touches my lips
when trying to take over the pudding leftovers.
I will not stop at any curves,
I will not whisper at your ear,
I will not caress you with my hands.
But when I reach your lips,
red and smooth,
I will know that
your landscape hides
all my peaks and valleys,
and I’d want to find my way back,
my way forth, my way out, my way home…
And I will find it
softly enough and with enough instinct
like a road on a map
which I follow with the tip of my tongue
Instead of my finger.
The night leaves scars on my window,
countless number of flies die singing
“we are half-awake in a fake empire”.
Poem from Bistra Kumbaroska from (Struga) Macedonia.
Irena Mila is one of the Lundagards photographers.
She studies Biology, and has as previously exhibited works in New Delhi, Belgrad and Štip, Macedonia.
