little shards of glass in the green of your eyes

your skin is made of sea foam

you’ve stolen from belgium’s coast

and your bed’s the only warm one

in our very empty room

Above golden ceilings

the clouds barely touch the ground

gravel leads up to my palace now

heavy silk and marble hands

around my neck, enviably alive

in empty graves and dusty mirrors

I pretend to see myself

cinnamon and myrrh

in the suffocating loneliness

of emeralds and brass-colored bones

in light yellow summer air

your love lies and

in it it deceases

drowns in pink

sugar-coated dawns and dew

and the heavy sighs of evening primrose

unfolding

in blue cicada nights,

hand-painted.