a poem for Juliet

With my eyes open, 

I hold a memento: picturing as how she shakes the transparent bottle every morning,

As how she does it to her sweater, now; she would cuss,

“Damn, these lints won’t take off.”

Relieved by her efforts, 

“Kiss me on the cheeks, son,” her good-bye.

Riding her decade-old Blue scooter—bare hands.

Embroidered on it was the Nirvana—a conventional mantra.

Worn with white hopes of today’s hardships.

Today, I pray for her deliverance;

O, Holy Ghost, may she be touched? 

Spare her from normalcy’s danger.

From Her son who once was breathing infant, that savored

And smelt the aroma

Of the breast,

That bore the Summer.

Madame of Her class, can I hold you?

Are you near? 

Are you near?

Presence, I seek you;

Be dear!