Number 10

I opened my wounds to you, my love,
when you sat in the darkness
on the brim
of what we were allowed to,
when you started sliding
my willpower
and my needs
like an automatic door,
when I thought,
on that dwindling motion,
that I could have bath
my lips of that salty water
forever,
when you tumulted the valley
of my belly
with your finger,
when you stole the pulse of my breath climbing up my stomach,
and you gave it back
to me
when encircling the fences
of my breast.

I opened my wounds to you, my love
when your eyes,
your silence,
your tremor,
your hands,
they showed me
the path to your wounds.

But you know I refused, I left that book
closed,
and so did you with mine
because we choose not to declare
that poems of the past
with sorrow
but to sing
new hymns
to this limited,
overwhelming
present.


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