squeezing the memories Of moments

When the drops loiter on the leaves
With stamps of carefree insects
They fall through the holes sometimes
And hang loose on the tip
Waiting to moisten
The wings of a moth,
Not worried about the behemoth
Walking around
They love the journey to dissipation
Just like a breathless being
Gasping for solace under
The shadow of armpits
Warm, moist and dark,
Just right for the dreams
To lay eggs
Of whispers
Hopes
And also abandoned
Desire of walking through
The forest,
Alone in the night
To listen to the rustling sound
Of the leaves
Some dry, some green
Some generous and some quite mean
Why else will they not reveal
The path without the slippery slopes
Amidst many of The vain hopes
And dormant desires
Of squeezing the memories
Of moments that
A creeper fearlessly aspires