Lover boy maps the night

I am up at this hour/Afraid/
& gathering your thoughts/
Into poems and things close to them/
my body shredding/ at the
hands of something like worry/
i mean that/ my lover’s silence
Sounds too much like a death
Sentence/ with flowers accompanying
Their conduct/ i bury them
Each time/ But they pirouette/ each
grown as daffodil in dreams/
To pluck sleep from my eyes/ your
Image is here/ stuck in my pupil/
As vestige/ feel the trace of
Your clamour in my voice/ painted
With Roses/ in anticipation of
Your return to the bay.

By Olúwapèlúmi Francis Sàlàkó

Biography:

Olúwapèlúmi Francis Sàlàkó writes from North Central, Nigeria. His writings aim to interrogate the place of memory, loss & love, stereotype, culture, history, time and space.