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



INTIMACY is these limbs perfectly tangled with yours - an organized chaos; those carotids pulsating in close proximity to my heart, as if talking in silent whispers, of stories only us would now. Words, all abstractions reduced to just mere concepts, insignificant, like time, slithering aimlessly past the moment.

I know now that to be intimate is to be completely naked, shedding sheets and sheets of us and not be ashamed. No calculated steps, no fear or doubt, just a dance of bodies in deep yearning, to fall, filling wonder with every sensation amplified against the lack of light.

What could have prepared us for this - when someday becomes today, the first actual memory? The eagerness, the easiness of it? To the overwhelming certainty that I can now define you through touch, in any sense, that your every surface, stretch of skin is mine to claim, every beating, sadness, joy; all of you is now within reach.



YOU ARE A POET and a linguist. And I am just another broken boy in love with the night sky. Lost, looking up, always. You are the poetry I can only attempt to write. I know that now. But you are also the phases of the moon, and I wax and wane with you as I lie on this rust-spangled tin roof, looking up still, in constant anticipation for the first sliver of borrowed light.



I LOVE YOU and I will love you, because my heart says so, because I still can. I will never think. Not tonight. Not ever. The current still flows in the same direction. To you. There is no point going back, no sense in evasion. This is my home now. You might say this is pointless, a shout to the void. But maybe you’re my black hole. Maybe this is what it truly means to be foolish, or to truly love someone, which would mean I have no choice. I just love. You probably don’t want it but you have no choice either. However, this is still the best option. To let my heart hang out there, beats faint in the wind, flailing, exposed to the elements. To feel pain until my seams burst, my cracks giving way. Maybe that’s what I need. To actually break and pick myself up from the floor with my bare hands, in the hope of finding answers, acceptance waiting underneath the broken pieces. So tonight, I will love you until the next second, the next phase of the moon, the next parallel universe. Because my heart says so. Because I still can. My heart is still full.