because it is not my lips
you seek for your own
so you may savor the day
that is being born as promised,
laced with the aftertaste
of my ashes and yesterdays.

because my hands are scarred.
and your skin bristle, your flesh
shiver at the contact of its strangeness.
your skin detects but would not believe
the possibility of ripe and sweet fruits
from the seeds i gathered
coated as their shells are in grime,
washed out traces of something red.
and so you dare not even discover
what twigs we could gather
for little bonfires to blaze in your darkness,
to melt your shields,
your daggers and armor,
and forge them into spoons and forks,
into a clean goblet
to hold the wine.

because my voice is not his voice,
my eyes are not the stars
of your blued skies,
in daylight or dark.

i discovered
the shape of my desire:

to navigate the waters of sleep
without signal flares, rafts, or life jackets
like you do.

with you.

when your eyes gaze at me
i am reminded of stars ablaze
ancient fires fueled by desires,
or perhaps by fate,
charting the distance and darkness
to glimmer like distant fireflies,
faint light for the faint of heart.

i would have told you this,
but always i am drawn
to your eyes
as flowers are for the butterflies,
devoured by the mystery
of what you see in me.

for this reason i become
your most favorite
unschooled astronomer
fingers tracing for you
the fated constellations and erratic
orbits of my soul.

there, in the stars.

you do not wear new clothes.

you do not attempt
to erase the aftertaste
by savoring other lips,
nor do you let new hands
trace and discover the valley
below your hips

you do not
even say
goodbye:

because it would be too late
because it would be too soon.

in the ruins of our disagreement,
digging the rubble for pieces
that we might still patch together,
she tells me
that the reason why
all those women of yesterday left me
is contained inside the shape of my flesh

and having heard this,
and this was last night
and still hearing the echoes of it now
like church bells tolling
for a funeral, i ask myself
why is she still with me?
why does she still stay?
perhaps, the answer is that
like all those women
of my yesterdays she too will,
one day, one night, or one afternoon
or perhaps even without a sigh,
abandon me.

and that is why
immersed as i am in this sea
of silence and loneliness where i hear
the sobs in my head,
i fold my clothes and tidy up my things,
pack them into my travel bag
and with my pen i chart
the roads and highways of my map
where i would soon be walking
with my shadow
the only one following me.

pure white ****** paper
my pen emerges
ramrod lustful
to take it into bed

as if with every contact
pumping and thrusting
whirls and whorls
lines and curves
between gasps
of commas and periods
it could soon
******* the seeds
from hope’s garden

thrice the moon has claimed the sky
away from the comets and stars
yet even her full naked light
could not brush away the shadows
gathering from not seeing you
nor hearing from you

even the photographs where you bared
more than just your smiling eyes for me
burns into my own like snowcrash static

until all that remains is this ache:
a ****** song born
with the rhythm of my heart;
the sound of your name laces
each of my breath, as if a prayer,
as i lay my soul into sleep.