These are the days where I am living on the rim of my throat.

I love to watch the sun drown the ocean

like cosmic spills from my mouth

of wild Indian oranges, It reminds me of when

I was four and I accidentally fell into the ocean

while the sun was eating it and i wish so badly to

understand the anatomy of your voice in the language

of the starry sea where the moon is swimming

because no one is watching. And I know that while

every time I undress your breath on my naked flesh

for the sake of my insanity you feign for the release

of blood like the day when that old man took me by my hand

and told me that I have an ancient cathedral carved

into my collarbones; how flattered I was, but you wished

that it came out of your veins instead of a complete stranger.

(I secretly wished the same)

I lay on the Persian rug while I devour the sun

to be enough for you because you said that you love me in colors.

You sow the pits of my womb with the force of vicious winter flowers.

My chest sinking as I rest a smile on your spine;

Extractions of wrists,

bruised plum lips,

this love is a creature divine.

I know that I am crazy and that I am susceptible to the evil eye

because every two years or so I would lose my hair brush

and the fortune teller would know why.

We became a part of the cult of cosmos,

we tore open suns and wore them behind ears like flowers.

You see I would dip my tongue in black holes to

taste the reverse of time on the lining between your legs

just to tell you what you were like before you were alive.

And I crashed into your limbs while you became my burial grounds

as you expected me to collapse like cascading stars from dead heavens.

Do you know how painful it is when you swim through my wrists?

I could look at you with dangerous eyes and still kiss your mouth pushing

rivers down your throat with my tongue and you would ask for the

Mediterranean sea.

I can still feel last afternoon on the back of my neck

the way you caught the last drop of rain and placed it

on my brow and swore with your hands like a little boy with broken

cigarettes that the more I wrote about love the more you wanted to die.

And how the sound of an opening flower is found between the winds of

an opening wound.

He stuck out his wrists and howled,

“My veins are at a boil and I do not know how to love you the way you love your words”  

I could tell he was ready for battle.

You declared war on my skin,

and I surrendered.