I love you- too much
That my ghost shall die,
a thousand deaths,
again and again
to bury any memory that's
capable of haunting you-
to chase away the burn
that may brew my nightly visit.
I love you- too much,
That you shall never see
my shadow, my scar, my remains
even at the most obvious places.
I love you- too much
That you shall never
hear that I do, ever again.

What are you going to do —
now that I stare at you,
listening into the silence, howling
the absence of noise?
What are you going to do —
now that my heart and all the ounce
of reason that embraces it, drops
into the cold tile floor?
What are you going to do —
now when the distance that separates
my feet to your feet is a
giant stretch of air, and people,
and books and rubble and
impossibility
and dying chances?

Why tonight?
Of all nights, knitted carefully by the slenderest of hands,
To form into a year, that springs into decades and centuries
And into a future with both of us gone –
Of all nights, that I have lain awake, asleep, disturbed, in love –
Why tonight?
Of all nights, why this night – when the moon shows nothing but its fullness
And bareness and disguise?
Why tonight?
Of all people, completing the billionth count, filling the shards of this planet we pity to call continents –
Why you?

I wonder if I tilt my head a bit on the side,
so my jaw would be angled just right,
so my nose would be touched nicely by shadows,
so my eyes would spark to lure the light-
I wonder if I walk a few steps towards, perhaps a few steps back-
I wonder if some type of arm stretch, or head rest-
will make you ask for my number.
And you- a fine sculpt of a man
do not need to do any but breathe then,
to have it.