last time we made love.
   stagnant heat bitter night,
    the smell of petrol from the highway,
        the old wind out on the balcony,
              our open windows,
our thin white curtains,
    our industrial city,
      our smogged stars.
                               and then –
our fast breathing and oh gosh,
           when you slipped your skull against my mouth
         i swear i could taste the scene:
some romantic technicolour western
     we’d watch in our friend’s garage
                        on their old TV.
                            (years gone past)
your hand against my skeletal
       cheek; our wandering minds;
                    our palm tree resorts,
       our electric hollywood dream;
          the setted sun
               the golden beaches
                       the tangerine taste in my mouth
                            from your love,
           the smell of our skin.

two.

  alone.