unsure of what it is
black eyes somehow reflective,
of nothing but pure sunshine
the past lifetimes i've had,
a cat,
at least nine
our love once being latency,
your aristocratic shame
i once merely a slave,
killed for getting too close to the king,
to you,
then the next, where i landed as the butterfly on your finger in the eden, unnoticed by you.
the sixth life slipped,
as we held hands and our lips
locked for the first time,
a key in the lock, intertwined
where the cinema chairs and your perfect messy hair
left me counting only on one hand.
the next few will come after a little death,
un petit mort,
my body melts on yours
nursery walls of cobalt blue
and perwinkle sheets
you will stay in my poems
latent,
as i wait to die with you
one final time
