His Haibun

He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.

I will lose him soon

Somewhere a clock is ticking

I hear it at night.

This is my first-ever attempt at a haibun. I only learnt about the form about an hour ago, but immediately loved it. Let me know what you think in the comments. :)

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