Fall - 4 minute exercise

"You have two minutes" she said, and my turqoise sweater was scratching my arms, and my words were a swirl of porridge melting into rotting milk, and I wanted to hug her, but my arms were so itchy, and I felt my feet become tree-trunks. The earth was not brown, but almost golden, with the fading yellow leaves that crunched like cookies beneath my boots. I was afraid to whisper, afraid that my voices vibrations would creep around the milky white of her neck, spreading tentacles like octupi, but could I really compare our love to an octupus? And was it our love, or just mine? And what kind of a creep was I anyway, to ponder octupi tentacles at 10 am over pancakes, on a Sunday, as she read the New York Times. "The two minutes are up", she said, popping a forkful of syrup-covered cake into her mouth. I shrugged. "You win - this time." I said. She laughed, and the sun reflected off her coffee-stained teeth. It was an autumn sunlight, full of the promise of future snowy mornings.

Unedited Writing Exercise, Inspired by Reading "The Achor Book of Chinese Poetry", as well as some Indian poetry.

You float in and out of my life
like the moon.

I trace you in the blood
between my thighs.

I search for you by darkened tree-trunks;
stirred by the river's waters, you try not to move.

A ribbon of moonlight shadows my footprints,
but I do not sense your silence.

"I give up", you once told me,
and I begged that we should live apart.

But the moon can not give up her love of the sky.
She glances at the earth with longing, as I kick the red rusty dirt,

wishing I could wane into the darkness
rather than read by the light of your eyes.