I haven't yet figured out
how I will take this Sunday....
washing myself among
the silver roads
or drinking it's dusk
outside with a porcelain
teacup-
all that my heart is
speaking of
is lucidity,
but my lips are a paradox,
not knowing how to whisper
everything you've meant to me
when you have held me tight
against such restlessness,
all over my soul.
Stay, my love
where art is like valleys
and you are not reminded
of the empty spaces....
who need to be assured
that something pushes
your heartbeat along.
A long afternoon
has ran through me,
embracing faithful
winds
nourishing its wilted ones
upon my arms and legs-
if Sunday falls in solitude
and my sun is kept away,
won't you bring me too,
hide me
somewhere where
the stars will teach me.
Teach me how to be-
in painted eyes
instead of living inside
a smothered frame.
My soul is still here
but my eyes are not artists,
they know nothing of love
and they wish for a portrait
to abide by....
instead of fighting in grey
and letting days
keep them behind
what you have stored
beyond.
Take me along
the raised coats of the wind,
and never set me down
in the hands of someone
who won't be my true
expressionist.
