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it is my life, it's my art --


of giving away.

It begins here
On your neck
As a soft kiss
Tasting your skin
Down

Down


Down


To your
Soul

There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

barren
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

At home, we each have our cell
our monastic life dedicated
to words and deeds
My words, his deeds

Walks after work
turning on each other's axis
like spiral trees on the edge
of an abyss

Practical issues
we discuss, the undiscussable
I write down in precise sentences
No endless talk

certainly not about myself
And in my struggle
to be seen
as I am

never using improper
words as a weapon
rather encouraging him
to be his best self

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.