You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


a prose for a smile

YOU have quelled my anxious soul, until there is only lightness, until I'm suspended in space caught between the curl of your lips and the imagined warmth over the stretch of my skin where your last touch had been.


there we had been

WE HAVE BEEN LISTENING to the same song, in secret, beneath sheets of silence, layers of longing under the cover of night wet with rain that we love, that puts out the forest fires of our fears, and muffles the sounds of a heart thrashing, desperately, hidden behind every thunderclap. Listen, my love. Listen to those distant heartbeats. The song will end soon, and your breath in my ear will be the only thing that could lull me to sleep.


the chase

I chase the light that gives colors to the sad sunset. Beautiful as always, forever out of reach. You.



THERE IS NO WAY of knowing if the cat is alive or dead because of one simple fact: we did not open the box. There is no such box now, or a cat, or any metaphor that could stand for whatever this is that we have. The comet has already streaked past us, closing out all posibilities, permanently, leaving nothing in its wake but us looking at the night sky, under a different set of stars, thoughts to the same sad epilogue: You and I collided, once. Our paths crossed, but never joined.



And poetry will be our language,
     Shelter ourselves with it,
     Like thick blankets at winter's peak;
     Kisses indelible on our skin.
     We will talk, live, love down to the last word
     Until there is only silence,
     Where words become infinite.