Fist Full of Love Metaphors

He said my heart is too hollow
to carry good love poems
so I searched on internet
how to grow a forest in my backyard
because where else can I run
will all my poems and love metaphors.
Cut my fingers and it will grow back again
for I am not an art experiment gone wrong.

Last Sunday I trapped all the I love you(s)
in a glass jar heart, but I wonder if they died
drowning in the cups of elaichi chai
that I refused because I prefer adrak.
Now I place the corpse of our vows in a grave
that I made with my grief-sucked eyelashes
and I lay on my bed with open fists
drawing routes on the map to get lost.

He said my heart is too hollow
to write good love poems.
I say I will never teach my poems
how to run down from my mouth to yours
Poems are messages tied around pigeons’ feet
they fly and reach at the right time and place
So if mine never reached you
perhaps my soul-mate collects and saves it all.