The sweet texture of her skin,
Gone,
The curves from her hips to her legs,
Destroyed;
The hands and hearts in twine with the beauty of a perfect soul
Now lies and in a double layered wooden cabinet
That holds not our dead, but our fatal fears,
Forming mosques out of our open hands
Praying church bells ringing,
Like phones vibrating passing the immortal message of death.
And we look at each other,
Every night
Before and after I got to sleep
For when I sleep,
Although lacking luxurious spaces
I lie next to her in that doubled layered wooden cabinet
That becomes not a casket
But a space shuttle;
We fly and hover
And discover the lover I've loved and still love
But can't be loved back, because
The double layered cabinets
And cab drivers that took us from point A
To Becoming what we wanted to dream
Block our audibility;
And our tongues still tangled from when we last kissed
So I can't talk and neither
Can she- hear me?
Through the escalating winds
And multitudinous vibrations of living corps,
Cropped the days out of a memoire
And pasted them in an internal time shifting memory
That'll last a lifetime until we get to begin again;
The pen that frightened the writer,
The writer that wrote
And brought misery to the readers
As her read through the green in her eyes,
The silk in her hair
The failures in her tries
And the sobs in despair.
I declare, ware upon my enemies
Love, death and my loud conscience,
For none of them brought us good perhaps
And none of them gave us what we need
And none of them were as benevolent as promised to be;
For you promised to me,
And you promised;
But the promises could not be kept by the dead
And the dead are those living in a waiting hall
And the dead, that do not keep promises
And the dead looking at their watches
Counting backwards…
As we all claim dead
Some of us are looking for mortality
And some of us become immortal…