Why don’t you embrace me
as me,
as who I am,
your true lover?
Why don’t you see
the thirst of gods
on my lips, on my tongue,
thirst
for the veiled nectar of your soul,
for the goddess
of your existence?
I am yours,
shedding the blood of my innocence,
a sacrificial lamb
to your red lips,
to suckle
the pomegranate sap
circling my veins.
Let my rest be
on the pillow of your heartbeat,
in the temple of your breast,
a temple bitten by time,
weathered, aged,
yet whitening the night
into marble.
Your temple
is my temporal loop,
my perpetual return,
the bloodline
of sublimation.
Why can’t you see my longing
as the scorch
on the wings of a moth—
a mouth aflame
with the sweet ache of burning,
the flavor of fire,
the invitation,
when the sun ignites the orchard?
Loving you is learning,
like marbles
rising to waltz
with sculpting chisels,
learning magic,
pulling Aphrodite of Milos
from the hat
of forgotten memory.
Like history
written in gold
with the sunburn wounds of heroes.
For the sake of a single rose,
the dagger of my pen
must plunge,
must drink
the red ink of my blood
to paint
red roses into words.
To blossom.
To climb
the ladder of thorns
in open wounds,
step by step,
dragged
along the crucifixion
of truth.
