A child running alone hungry for the hand of a
stranger
my love, abandonment in a house of mirrors, still
fascinated by one’s own reflection, a drinker
of paradise.
my love, abandonment in a house of mirrors, still
fascinated by one’s own reflection, a drinker
of paradise.
I put paradise between us.
I put paradise into small perfume
bottles.
I spray them on my naked skin and
lie in bed enjoying the radiant feeling of them soaking in
like thoughts of hands
tangled against each other.
The drink poisons me in some
glorious fantasy of illusions, and I become a queen I become a beggar and I
become a starless 4 am gazing out your bathroom window. In that dream, I feel the
carpet first caressing my back and toes then I feel it pinching
as the weight
lies above me.
How do I love? Words failing, words wounded lying everywhere. There must be words to document this. Are there words
to make you feel it? I feel a writer. When I fall in love. The
insignificance of everyday tortures becomes glasses full,
drops running on the
sides of my lips
I hold them clumsily. I write about me. Not me the person.
Me the idea of a thousand clicking belts getting undone, of myriad fireflies stumbling in the garden dirt, of too many closing of the eyes to enjoy the thinking of us.
Me the idea of a thousand clicking belts getting undone, of myriad fireflies stumbling in the garden dirt, of too many closing of the eyes to enjoy the thinking of us.
Squeezed voices
are coming out of the glass and I lie there murmuring them at a million rhythms.
How many ways are there to feel
the want of you. I think them. I chase them.
They slip off my mind relentlessly for I am,
in this very moment, only a small fraction of consciousness at the backseat of
your car peering at the back of your neck, escaping that dictatorship
of your collar, thinking the vertiginous ride and mistaking it for
the sweet emotion of together.
Humming.
Humming.
I spill myself on that very back seat. I let the fabric absorb me all. I let the me be absorbed by the beams of
light coming out of that small back window. Eyes closed to think. I wonder if you will. Will I tonight stain
your delirium those 3 seconds of pacing the bridge to sleep. Will you roll in my breasts when I become a bird of paradise and you the
feathers that fail me above the seas.
And when in the depth of the
darkest ocean,
between two drownings
between two drownings
Will you be the creature to swim
past me
and devour the corpse left
by the
burning
of the morning sun?
and devour the corpse left
by the
burning
of the morning sun?
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