You’re never getting those clothes back, the shirts that found their way into her wardrobe, covering a person you’ve seen at their most bare. They don’t belong to you, not anymore; she never belonged to you, only found her way into your covers.
You still wear pieces of her, walking down Merrimon Avenue, in one of her favorite outfits, feeling so warm that you have to go home, and change.
It’s okay.

I

I never saw a mountain move
by the pure grace of love,
But by desire, I saw a continent
dragged to the tip of the sun.

I saw the sea raising its current,
trying to ****** some star,
like the blood in your stream,
while someone else made love to you.

And I lost the will to live,
and the desire to die
chained to your altar.

And the hummingbird
he put on your lips,
it splattered you of freedom,
but in its hum you found a prision

for two pigeons with no course,
for the canary I left in your hand.
and it was not from love, it was of pure desire
that you opened your mouth and closed your fist.

And I lost the desire to die,
and the will to live
Chained to your altar,

As if there was no other God!
That I could worship
As if there was no other God!
To which I could kneel
As if there was no other God!

II

All these men on the pedestal,
and if each one is given a cross,
How many gods will we praise?
How many won't be dead Christs ?
How many won't be stained sheets?
How many, on Easter Sunday
will not even face God? Goodbye.

I opened my mouth and I created you a universe,
I showed you the tiger and the dove,
I planted on your chest an ivy and a rose,
I watered you of morning and sun,
and still, you preferred to go down to hell,
with the loneliness, the bone and the shadow
a snake and a red moon

For his tired eyes,
for his bitter smile,
for his brown hair,
and hands that had never touched you,
and a horseman that won't ride you,
a street on which you never cried before,
and any other meridian time.

For some other Adam
that galloped away
from a paradise he did not find in your summer,
a string of few beads
that is embedded in the ground where I bloomed,
where a tree of blood and prayer grows,
that in each fruit bears my flesh
and the seed of another God.

Maybe it's true,
Maybe it's true that you are March and April's pollen,
Maybe it's true that you are the shadow of the sun,
maybe it's true that you are a dream of god.

Maybe I am a gale,
One of those warm but gruff,
those that can mess with your hair,
but never impregnate you.

Maybe it's true,
Maybe you told me, maybe you did,
that our love, only at times
looked like it was going to live

Maybe it was born dead,
with forgotten bones,
Maybe it was only mine,
this cold fruit of sharpened longings
embodied in my chest.

So, don't speak of my love.
I ask you don't speak of my love,
Don't speak of it as if it was yours.
The thorn is yours,
the scar is mine,

the scar of all these years,
you have bitten,
you have scratched it,
don't speak of it
as if it was yours,

as if your hands had been chopped
in the wood of his coffin,
as if your mouth had gotten wet
right before you gave him bread,

as if you heart had wallowed
in the torture of his quietness,
as if your ears had bursted
in the second he stopped breathing,

so don't speak of my love,
I ask you, don't speak of my love
Don't speak of it as if it was yours,
as if it was yours...

I'm the offspring of a mighty current,
Conceived in a shark ******.
My brothers, I ate them
from inside the womb.
Their cartilage made me forget

That my eyes have room for the sun.
My eyes have room for the sun.
My body holds the seed
of a new race,
and from my mouth
the sea is born.

My cradle was the harvest  of a moon
that didn't know how to breastfeed me,
Perhaps it was the kiss of the ant,
or the kiss of the snake.
Perhaps the poison made me forget

That I am verse,
I am a poem in a bag of bones,
I am the misunderstood expression,
I am the opportunities of my skin.
I am the beauty
in the dead of a raging hurricane.

My only mistake
was having my trial in someone else's sheets.
Surrendered my body,
Surrendered my will,
and the desire to be somebody,
in order to have some body.
The trust in myself,
the love I should feel for myself.

I lost everything
In the hands
of the one who wanted to want me.

And today, in front of the mirror
I don't know if my gaze blinds me,
or lies to me.

I do not love you in the most common sense of the word.

I do not love you softly with doe eyes and tender kisses.
I do not love you bravely, for there is nothing brave in my actions or words to you.
I do not love you kindly or sweetly, gently or patiently, considerately or reservedly.

I love you like a storm was loosed on my entire being from my first glimpse of you.
I love you like a match loves to be struck, or like a nail loves a hammer.
I love you like a page loves being scarred by the ink of a pen,
and I love you like a pick loves being scraped across old strings over and over again.

I love you violently, and entirely. But, most of all, secretly.

I love you scorchingly and searingly, as if all the pretty words you've ever bestowed upon me were mere kindling.

I love you like an atom must love the universe, a thing by the grace of which it exists, but a thing also which it couldn't possibly ever grasp.

I love you behind my heart and behind my eyes, to shield such a vulnerable thing from the corrosion and harsh grinding of the world.

I love you brokenly, and bitterly, and for always, because I will not admit to loving you at all.