I scribbled what I couldn’t remember

I forgot what needs to be, forgotten

So have I thought,

Whenever the sun lost its path 

like blood in my veins

and the cold swept in

just like it did the morning

he touched my lips

and I wondered there

in that moment

Does this have a name?

This feeling

I compared it with the slime upon a frog;

glossy, almost invisible but, 

it’s there and

I wouldn’t touch it!

Every time I look at the snails

leaving their trails

similar to frog’s slime,

moving slower like his lips

and I wondered there

in that moment

Would I prefer it if it goes quicker?

I have forgotten what needs to be, forgotten

but it’s the crack that I see

when everything is still, for a second

the moving curtains

flying birds

the sun’s rays 

and I become “slimy”.