Love. Maybe love would take me up,
make me walk, make me run, make me propel into the air and float
across the skies
with such force, with such purpose.
Maybe love would make me want this.
Please let me be.
How have I survived so long, with such a violent hunger for the warmth of a soul
braided into my own?
How could my moon be so far past the horizon?
Please leave me be.
The astral craters of the crescent align with the curve of his lips,
the length of the silk hairs at the end of his eyelids,
that give me lashes like a whip-
so many lashes…
Please don’t help me.
The skin along my spine splits open and cries out.
His palms climb out of the gaping slit,
wanting no more to wander this spherical hell we call earth,
wanting no more to bleed from this eternal wound we call time,
but to caress my face that so badly needs caressing,
lay with my soul that so yearns for devotion.
Devotion to this salty brown skin marinated with tears,
marinated with tears.
