he was made of dark
matter, i laugh cause i see
his constellations

I choose,
I choose to write on my wrists the words I cannot say
Spiraling around my arms the secrets I cannot tell
Finding their way to my neck the sentences  I don't understand
Kissing my ears, my lips, my whole body
A scroll full of ink, red, black and blue
A rainbow of selective colours, meaning not a rainbow at all.
In the morning these words disappear
Evaporate into the tingling morning air to join my dreams in the boxes I have kept them in order to gather dust and remain unopened, untouched and unlived.

Ignore the veiled murmur beneath
the social graces and party conversation

excuse this bland ****** arrangement
feigning interest in tales worn thin
cruising the same old Memorial Parkway.

This, and the embedded gravel
marking each grim rotation:

expectation
disappointment
anger

the weight of relentless perfection.

I am the artist of the painting I call my life.
And every now and then,
the man I love  makes surprise appearances
in which, he sheds vivid colors of pain, love, lust and hate
on my bland misused body.
He does this passionately with his own
blood, sweat and tears
Creating between my love and his, colors that don’t exist
It is a thing of beauty, truly.
But at the end he always leaves
and then it becomes my vigorous displeasure
to blend the colors he leaves behind.
Turning back to simpler colors of life