My head spins with dreams
Of arms holding me
My mouth touches
Handsome devilish smiles
Fingers tracing the soft tissue
Of my skin
Their voices echo through
These great palace walls
But I can't hear them.
Blurry sounds carried by
The rising scream of air in a
Windowless
Ageless
Room
The love letters are in the entryway
Scrolls of plastic pilling up
In a clear clean rose palace
With guest rooms for people in entire towns
Holding balls for sprinkles of dust
Dancing when the curtains open
The oil paintings hanging on my walls
Are more real than any of
Those plastic confession letters
The oil paintings are the utmost dislocated memories
In this rose quartz castle
But they are the only pieces of art
Able to tear my lips apart—
Half of me is here
The other half is there, in the air, everywhere
Holding myself onto the only piece of
Art I can find;
Only you are not paper nor cloth
But the bittersweet flesh
That makes my blood jump,
Turns my bones to water,
The smile that makes life out of my
Clockwork heart
Those eyes
The only eyes
That however distant
Are always caring
And loving
—already much more real
Than those in pile of plastic letters
Waiting for me
While I'm waiting for you.
[I couldn't help but fall in love
With the smell of fresh ink
On your paper love letters]
YOU ARE READING
H I M
Poesia"Blue eyes for distant Stars Honey eyes for Sunlight, We are the crashing of waves on sand Tree branches reaching for the bright sky We are where you end and I start; We were made to belong." This is a chapter in a book I am putting together. And t...
