May your veins rivulet with stars,
and the blood from your bones
tickle the moon.

She caught my dreams
with a net like
a broken winged firefly.

She stored it in
the mason jar
of her heart.

Crush my soul,
Pour it out into
the gaping
black hole.

1) ***** the black shards perched inside your chest
and spill the volatility arrows charring your lungs.
2) Let a garden of tulip vocabulary grow where it’s slain
and water it with the residue of your wasted tears.
4) Gift a bouquet of poetry from your garden to
your lover.

The eclipse lit corridors
of our grandoir stage.
Basking in your shadow
Calms the tempest
that brews within
the caffeine infused blood of mine.
Each word that spills from
the tip of your tongue
is like the first kiss
the Earth has with the Rain.
All of this reechoing sound
is meant to be dismantled
like a severed limb
from a Ken doll
and grains into lead bullets
that slightly brushes past
the curvatures of my exit wounds.
Because,
you do not love me.

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

Your belongings (be)long to/for the materialist of Earth.
Your memories belong in the cradle of the hands of time.
Your talents belong in the rucksack of circumstance.
Your friends and family are shadows on the pavement
of the path you travelled.
Your lover belongs in the warmth of your heart.
Your bones belong with the typhoon of dust.
Your soul belongs in God's horcrux.
Your moments.
That's all that's ever yours.
Moments.