to my darling who feels she's not:
our separation is mere illusion.
truly, your pain strikes me as i write this;
your sensations of abandonment,
and the decisiveness they have caused,
bleed from my skin into the fibers of my clothes.
i am no longer clean.
i do not feel pure.

to my severed arm and shortened tendons:
destruction is merely another side of life.
out of disappearance comes all things-
without space, there would be nothing to contain us,
nothing to allow and enfold our beings' spirits,
and they would sputter and cease like my love's flame.
i am no longer yours.
i do not feel full.

to the farthest star that my eyes can see:
your light reaches me- i glimpse you!
in the perceived emptiness between us
there is no distance to be found;
around us exists the infinite potential for
further connection and deeper growth in closeness.
i am no longer alone.
i do not feel sorrow.

Your hands set my skin on fire,
Burning my flesh into something
You can easily mold.

As soon as you get used
to the lights on,
and his face adorns
my empty walls

you will cut off the hand
that undresses the oak
and the endless touch
and the sever conditions.

Will he know this?
Will he know?
Will he know?

Will he know that in the end
you didn't hunt out of hunger?
That in this eternal field
of lilies and wire
the night forgot the moon
and walked until late,
to find you chewing
muscle and fur?

Only one mark on your skin,
but on your soul, perhaps, thousands
although I wouldn't dare to say
that any of those was inflicted by me.

And if it never rains again,
When will you have the courage to choose
if you sleep without his eyes, or without me,
If you live without a scar or without roots?

And if on these streets
where you dragged me,
where so many winters
for springs you traded

I should have the misfortune
to stumble upon him,
I would apologize
just by seeing him

Would he know this?
Would he know?
Would he know?

Would he know that you are just
a burning bush?
And I am a dark water spring
wanting to caress you?
That, maybe, I did him a favor,
that, modesty aside,
it takes more water
than what he has to turn you off?

And the glass of his eyes
would be broken in suspense
and then, he would want to see
(or not)

And he would recognize the cancer
that he has carried on his bones,
and then, he would want to believe
(or not)

That, out of the seed he spat
I did grow a watermelon.
Then I would know
(or not)

if I'm allowed to be born,
if one day, the day will come
where you will be mine
or not.

All I got is Hennessy on my tongue
and, baby, you on my lips.

I kissed you
and tasted alcohol
staining your lips

I didn't find this wrong
Or unusual
Or concerning

All I could think about
Was how I wanted to become
Something you were addicted to

I wanted to drip past your tongue
Pour down your throat
Bitter but enjoyed

Turn to me when you need comfort
Let me haze your mind to take away all pain
Blur your vision so you don't see what you don't want to

I can be your new intoxication.

a year ago
we were talking about my (then recent) breakup

He's such a poison it's not even funny

today i finally realized you weren't talking about my ex.
you were talking about the boy with the curly hair and dark brown eyes sitting across from me:
the one i just confessed my love to.