My Queen Poem by menash mohan shrestha

I love it when her eyes lighten up.
When she's able to read my paper face.
Ripe. With so many cuts.
Folded and bled.
Sometimes crumbled and painted in black.
Yeah, I know.
She marvels in, what I'm in short.
She's got words and I've got colors.
Stubborn words that transcend the conversation.
The resonance of wrath at her tip of tongue.
And of course, I lack the haemorrhagic bloodshot in my eyes.

Her eyes always plead for solace in my words.
While she stutters in her anger.
Rather I write for her when I'm but myself.
My silence, as I know, will make her strong.
Stronger than she ever was.
But sometimes, even in my prose and poetry.
She searches for metaphors.
And pretend to be heart-broken.
Finding something which I never meant to write.
But this time she won't let me down.
As my face is being painted in Red.
With every careful stroke of my queen of heartache.