I try to forget about
the things that I’ve done,
and sometimes I can

but when I get home,
I see that my bad decisions
are still stained into
my bedsheets.

I met him in the night.
    A Gayborhood local
     told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
           his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
                               twang and lisp.
                               I already knew,           he didn’t have to tell me.

             He bought me drinks, and watched
                             me             and only me,
                as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
              
             He invited me to an afterparty,   I didn’t know
   him, but we went     through alleys,
         dampened by the heat of bodies
      melding to the brick walls, glistening
                            in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
                          pressed and held, to stay,            not to
                         part. It was
        beautiful.
          
             Within the alley was
        our destination: underground. It was
                a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
    Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
                                      I finished them all.
                    

                                                               I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
         it hurt.

                                       He was warm and sweaty, and
         smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
                                    his stubble left
               my face burning.

                            He grabbed my hand, and led me to
                         the bathroom, then I woke up
                             in his bed.
      
      
             I remembered
                            his husband’s name, and that
                                            he lived in Caracas, that
                  we had ***, and took
                           a shower together, that
                            his mother, dying from leukemia,
                                               slept upstairs, unknowing.
        


                                            ­               I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
   cradled by their tiny physique.
         I wept
              for our beloveds.

I make decisions
That I regret sometimes
But I own them
As a part of me
And take them
As learning experiences
Sometimes correct them
I'm human
Bound to make mistakes
Not a robot
Not an angel
Not a god
Not perfect
like everybody else

You’ve gone so far and yet you think
That everything is far behind you.
The things you’re missing when you blink
Do not define you.

no one's past should
define who they are today,

unless their present
is merely an extension
of the supposedly
dead and buried.

It's a mistake to love someone
Unless you like despair
Far wiser would you be to just
Pretend that you don't care

It's a mistake to need someone
With all your soul but then
It's a mistake I make I fear
Again and again and again