I wrote the address of you on my heart,
So I can still call a cab home, love drunk,
When my feet are too scared,
To find rhythm beyond missing you,
I wrote your number on my arm,
So they have a number to call,
When I’m lost fighting in a war,
I thought you were worth fighting for,

See, we put our innocence on a shelf,
Like we were putting together a library,
Of all the memories that we put to paper,
If only to give worth back to these trees,
When we engraved our initials on those barks,
Like we labelled the very oxygen we breathed,
And it tasted sweet, and it tasted like us,
Like everything I thought love would taste like,

We were just proper paper people,
Trying to recycle a story retold by fairy tales,
Not afraid of flames of our passion,
Licking us down to ashes,
From which a phoenix can boast of its rebirth,
A god of its immortality,
But I can boast of a heart full of what,
Words cannot worth value to,



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Frankhie Muthumbi

Frankhie Muthumbi


Perfectly Imperfect || Human, Alexithymiac Poet, Writer, Musician