manuel of la brea

50

you won the war

I.

The war is already won by you
before I’ve begun releasing the doves,
and surrendering love.

I am a troubled soul:
my picture was on the back
of a pack of cigarettes.
Breathe in, breathe out,
I am surrounded by bad smoke,
and if you ever touch me,
your lips would turn ruby red.

I am a naked magic,
a hopeless imagination.
And I was doomed to organize
walk-in closets like tombs.

And then you came by,
so I chose to stay,
because I’d rather choose
the drop of mist
or the hell’s rain
over the heaven’s grief
as we start at the end.
Our beginning in
the lower ground
proved another chance.

II.

I found out that we are just the same soul,
you are just the lonelier version of me
since you were the last damn kid
who believed in me,
stood up, and defended me
like the way you protected your faith.

And now we will disappear together
one time at a dream,
and our wings will burn to ashes,
then your hot whiskey eyes
will fan my flame;
your fuel kiss
will hug my scorching skin—
in this death valley where
you said I ignited your soul.

You called me your suicide blonde,
looking so gold in those fields
that made your heart
skip a reverse beat—
that made you put you in motion
like a timeless wine in a shrine.

III.

And if I never see you again,
you know I would trade
all my tomorrows
for just one yesterday
with you.

And if trouble follows us again,
I’ll remember the moment
when a grey cloud with
a silver lining happened
and you came
to me.