Thought

I thought your poem was on me
From start to finish, every syllable, I felt, was about that invisible space between us
I felt it all dissolve me word by word and reform me into
Blossoming trees
Drenched orchids
The mist that joins one mountain to another
The blanket that sails over seas as clouds
Every particle of me found a home in your verse

I thought your poem was about us, the time
We watched days pass by as the curtain sent light over our faces
Of and on, wavering smooth
Shadows of skin embalmed by soft afternoons
Your breath coinciding with mine, becoming a memoir
Short lived in air
You sent your fingers downward through my hair, on somedays
When your table is deserted
I sense them nursing my face and putting me to sleep

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Fields, circa 2010

in the interim, your hair disturbed
by October and its slow winds
flurrying over fields of sugarcane
your rustic accent splintering slangs, your fangs
biting into my innocence
what a fabulous season it was
the highway wasn’t built yet, storks circled
pipits danced, the mat we slept on scarred
by tense movements
muscle and bone
hair and breath
evenings and more evenings
nights without names

Whispers to a Current Flame

The curtains incandescent from a morning glow,
breathing in and out, sending luminous tides
to and fro across your face; you let them paint you.

Inside you a storm brews –
you imagine the whole of me melting in your grasp,
my body tantalised and reformed by the movements of yours.

Lying down under a humid breeze, you let my face sink into your chest,
watching the hair on my forehead flicker and reveal a childhood scar
from time to time.

With you I can be cleansed, nude, dressed, altogether;
without clothes we are robed by the summer,
with clothes we filled with the desire to uncover the landscapes
that live over us.

You devour me again and again, reducing me to the bare emptiness
of a fulfilled desire, waiting for me to open my eyes
only to undress me into a further nudity.

The evening arrives; must we go on for a walk and talk about the films we like and the poetry we left unwritten, while debating over what to try for dinner? Everyday passes as I watch you grow into a woman, scene by scene culminating into something maturer and calmer, nurturing me and using me, filling me and robbing me, coming to me and leaving me.

Grasp

listening to your barrage of pop rock
the exclusive smoke rings
coming to me like lucid lyrics
the window flings open for the afternoon
to sings songs of rustling leaves
who spectate carefully
moment after moment
occasionally intruding
by falling into the room

the sun slants more and more
your breath enriched by nicotine
asking to be grasped