If They Would Call It Passion

(Post coitum omne animal triste)*

You hold me with the look of your fire; the softness of your breath-hands touch

things inside, things that by your touch move only like Swiss cogs in their perfection

In my hand from my heart are open and raw poppies, the explosions of their eyes – oh I feel

Their tears when I am on the cross; nailed by passion for only you, my seraph, to see

and then I see too, see the iridescence in you when the heart of your fingers opens me

gently petal by petal; this rose aches in your zephyr’s embrace

And once let go – like butterflies to the blue – I can but only watch

And trace the way your hair is so still and still on my lip long after you’ve left

I am left only with shadows and pillow-prints; and when they weep, it is for me

And me alone, drawn to coil around and inside a cuttingly lonely truth:

That I am not sure I want to know anymore; though will you still accept it? Will you:

Sip from me, my hummingbird? The blueness of my sight and its stream of sighs?

Perhaps even The Cursed Gift? Somewhere selflessness even flocked afar

And even my colours once radiant now feel the sting of all my dissolutions and scar my back

A remembrance of the heaving and fall into the Sea Of Tranquility, though its silverness still astounds

when nestling somewhere far into your voice, filling nights like wells

Your sequined eyes grasped from our night still shine in me

But now, a scratch at my walls, my skin cries out between your nails and water, blisters

shut me and pool at my feet, A reflection, of me, of us, of your ghost –

a caul of smoke in the moonlight and a laceration that can never ever heal.

*{Latin}(After coition every animal is sad)


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