There is a condition
Adjacent to fear
But beyond its boundary

A place so close
That you
May drown in the awareness
Of survival

A point in time
Where you
Await the Caiman to close
Their eyes

There was something
About your mascara
         When it rained
    When it smudged

But before it ran
The liner in the corner of each eye
                                Angled Easterly
                        Aligned with Horus
Now the prism
Within each iris within each eye
Within your photograph
Creates a mirage
                 That your still here
There was something
                 About your
                 Mascara

Identity has no attachment
                          Where from
It is held down as a constant
                          To cover the years

   Identity is suggestive
Fluid in our perception
                As an ice cube
     Between your palms
                        Dissolves
     To slip through your fingers

Each time I think of you
It is as if

               I call down the moon
               To frame your silhouette
               Embraced by another

It is as if

               The four winds
               Shall burn us both
               With the jealously
               Born from my nature

It is as if

               Each composition of
               Scented dialogue
               Withheld from my eyes
               Became a letter
               Of indiscretion
                              Unleashed upon the world