The Poet

A language I vaguely know. The mind translating my mother tongue to my new one. My words as they stumble upon themselves.

The scathing feeling. A remembrance, a disgusted and archaic ache.  Hunger to be the one who rectifies the ache.

Fingertips on virgin skin. The taste of salt beyond my eyes. Pressing to be undone. Three pairs or more meet in silence. The broken stare. The ghosts we leave to die. 

Torture in being watched. To live within.

I do not remember you. You sound like smoke and distance. I am so far gone, I reminisce those forty-eight days as if they have forgotten me.

To recall the desert like land and undominated winds. Tragic selves who sit on empty stages. We take everything for ourselves. For love, for a family. When they fall, I come apart.

I dance like broken wings who forget themselves in the night. It is my only curse that I despise you.

To say too much. To crumble. Is it a line I cannot blur? Soft and broken things we haul around. Reminding me of somebody I knew. It rests inside your voice.