Indian Summer,
Your winds
warm
from the tip of the branches
To the core of the trunk,
Whose rings showed signs of
seasoned frost,
Until your summer
spread itself like thick, much-needed
heat
Blanketing the chill within,
But the roots are firmly embedded
In a soil
dense like basalt;
The invasiveness of your heat
Might risk
tearing from the root
Or yielding the sweetest fruit.
Te quiero comprender en un idioma que no se todavia.
Mis lagrimas vienen
como las estaciones del año
concentradas dentro de un momento,
y mi dolor rompe la piel
sin fuerza
como una nueva navaja.
Cuando sueño contigo,
no te tengo.
Y cuando estoy despierta,
agarro una niebla
que esta siempre un pie adelante.
Me muevo adelante
hasta que el aire se despeja.
La belleza del cielo me hiere.
Quiero volver a la neblina que bloquea
la luz que me perfora por mis cejas.
Sea mas fuerte.
“My face beneath the street lamp. It reveals what it is lonely people seek”
He strummed his strings with such fury
I was rapt with awe
and wonder
locked between
the land of sleep
and waking dreams.
He was uncharted territory;
his face–unknown.
His eyes–dark pools of liquid gold.
My reflection was
but a silhouette
rippling atop his murky depths.
“Free me,” I whispered
with a kiss
upon his surface tension,
breaking it with delicate force.
But push became pull,
and I slipped through
losing my footing
to give way to complete
submersion.
-Morning-
Birds sing.
Their chirping does not rouse
Gently
But abrasively
Because I want to be deep in dreams.
Your warmth only reaches
So far;
I have to make contact
To sate this
urge.
When our skins
Interact
It’s as if I feel you from the
Root first
To the tip.
You are so cold
In parts,
But our friction is like
The lightning strike
And our scents–
Emergent ozone.
