The hour is long and the darkness soul deep,
Utterly isolate in an ocean of souls,
Our tryst has become, by you, anulled,
Without you, bereft of my Heart's gold,
No more indulgence of my bliss,
No more imagining your luck's kiss,
But imagining still your lilting songs,
Which stir the air amidst tattling throngs,
Cleft in twain now, I bid thee farewell,
And pray you soar, not fathom hell.

my lethargic limbs ache
taut against the strings.
****** around
by a puppet-master
with invisible hands.
perpetually exhausted.
i sleep,
but i do not rest.
just once,
i'd like to wake up
on the right side
of the bed.
instead, i keep
waking in a sweat
at 3:00am, wishing
i was dead.

Just your hot heart,
nothing more.

My Paradise, a field,
no nightingales,
no strings,
a river, discrete,
and a little fountain.

Without the spurs,
of the wind, in the branches,
without the star,
that wants to be a leaf.

An enormous light
that will be
the flow
of the Other,
in a field of broken gazes.

A still calm
where our kisses,
sonorous circles
of echoes,
will open, far-off.

And your hot heart,
nothing more.