They say there are fewer things, deeper things and I cannot believe the words. Anything else I hear, only the details of a city. Two lips against each other, not two mouths, a hidden architecture. They say you’re incandescent and mine. Inside my hands… the way you break and still the light pours in, with all the questions. The way I’m mad. You window my chest in irreparable ways, all scenic, all grit.
Two stories meet at the seam and in the shape of the letter v. Nurture and plump terrain. How I expose a roundness, how I dare to feed the world from my own body, yours. How always I write about the land. Come here, listen a while. Irrevocable face, present sliver of stained and marked deeds. I am modern. I am contemporary. I’m abstract and lie here in between.
There are fibers and strings hanging, pulling at my fingertips. The index and thumb, to be exact, while you look in the mirror. As if asteraceae. It is all for you: I’ve made this one confessional. Little planet far. Vinculo perene de las hojas y los astros. Me levanta una palabra, un tal Garcia Lorca, un Dario. Solo. Only to drink you. I spill, like the sand found three days later, on your bed. The sea not wanting to leave you as easily as you did.
Not far from here there is a mariachi singing your birthday. You are the only girl on the strip, the only light in the thick sugary coffee sky. The only nude satin dress with ruffles like dancers, disquieted, uneasy. I can’t remember having honest intentions.
Born of the body, Venus, the floating light of life, fills a certainty. I am so hungry and it has been a while since I slept. It sits on top of the sea, the foam of a thousand men in a circle jerk. My thirst is hanging by tread now. Throw out a net, girl. I’m all scales and fins.
*Venus is in retrograde until the end of November.
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