We are not meager like the root, that's certain.
Transparent, wounded more like tentacles of light
reaching out and down and infinitely dying- my silences,
your forbidden syllables, what existed, what is still
surviving. We are stitches of our dreams, our lover's lips
a needle, our cloth a cocoon in which we speak quietly
to eachother without words or eyes or happiness.
Our music is a book whose pages are a heart that skips
and beats faster, our dance a shadowy body moving
gracefully on a balcony in warm air, our living like
the outside of a universe, immense, inspiring.
Each night, an opened robe, every morning, unfastened,
unworried, delighted, dipped again in the language that
brightens us, we become a stranger to ourselves.
Transparent, wounded more like tentacles of light
reaching out and down and infinitely dying- my silences,
your forbidden syllables, what existed, what is still
surviving. We are stitches of our dreams, our lover's lips
a needle, our cloth a cocoon in which we speak quietly
to eachother without words or eyes or happiness.
Our music is a book whose pages are a heart that skips
and beats faster, our dance a shadowy body moving
gracefully on a balcony in warm air, our living like
the outside of a universe, immense, inspiring.
Each night, an opened robe, every morning, unfastened,
unworried, delighted, dipped again in the language that
brightens us, we become a stranger to ourselves.
