‘Love is: an art played by blind bodies.’


I have gotten used to tracing my fingers around the cups you drink from:

Your delicate lips taint them in a way that makes me envious.

You see, your sweet vanilla eyes are clouded with a sprinkle of blue diamonds that I like to wear around my heart, a necklace that I will wear forever.

And your touch, your fingers stroke against me and numb my movement – gentle and graceful, they dance in a way only a true artist knows.

Then you hang me, against the wall, once a  blank canvas –

You then illustrated with penetrating blows of  red ruby, blue and the porcelain yellows  you stole from the rainbow.

And when you etch your loves notes into my back, you scale a map and tap against the mountains of my spinal cord gazing at the moon sized bite-marks  you left.

Telling me, they are  path that so surely leads your anatomy to me.

And when you hold me, you have spun your silver web around me – and clung on to all the atoms and chemical elements that make me, me. As if I am only existent with you.

Then you lay three thorny roses in the soil where I am buried. The thorns dig in, just enough to make a hole for you to drop petals through and –

You whisper to me, with that tongue of a katana, only words that revive me:

‘I love you.’

And you say it in a way,

I would imagine God saying it.


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