i am looking over your love letters
my hands are shaking
winds are trying
to take them away from me
into the depths of the roiling ocean
i am fighting the winds
i am back with you in that place
palm trees born from violet skies
white drapes covering adrenalized lovers
i am laughing
follies of love
your teeth leave painful marks
on my shoulder
winds funneled through my heart
push me into the ocean
salty waters corrode my nostrils
stingrays puncture my arteries
a church bell tolls
where are they?
like a hurt bird falling from the sky
on a forgotten shore
like a cracked violin
in which green lizards nest in silence
like a sea
on which no ship has ever sailed
this sunday hurts
like a love letter
on a barren tree
image: Zoya Kriminskaya/Shutterstock
in the season of my sorrow
barren branches cry like birds
scrolls verse desperately something
who cares about verses anyway?
the hands of an old city clock just stopped
violet hills are raped by bullets
children are not told bedtime stories
hungry eyes aimed at my dress
you’re right, my love
I’m not the one
I’ve always been
for in the season of my sorrow
and something’s borrowed
dawns are breaking in your eyes
virgins with unplaited hair
climb the mountains to the cave
where your songs
the fortunes tell
how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
walk the roads with your guitar
spread your fingers on my skin
I’m the part you’ve never played
I’m the one you’ve never had
in the solstice of the lovers
in the breaking of the bread
deep into your body’s scent
in your tears of despair
and our love will never end
image: Ben Roman/Shutterstock
Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)
recite my eyes,
in the glimmer of your eyes
recite my hands
in the tremble of your hands
recite my love
in the abyss of your love
and i will recite you forever
First, one’s mind catered to the other.
Then, they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.
By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.
In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.
It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.
Yet they didn’t.
don’t wait for me
please find another lover
i’m riding camels with the Bedouins
watching the golden sunset coiling in the desert
i’ll enter Alexandria by morning
the day Mark Anthony committed suicide
don’t wait for me
go find another lover
i’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth
the Friday which forever will be feared
the smell of burning flesh is choking me
the Knights Templar are shedding tears
don’t look for me
until I’m writing you again
past sunsets murmur in gray fumes
and in the night before His resurrection
like Mary Magdalene
i’m looking for a tomb