Uncharted
There is a little birdbath in the park.
There is a little birdbath in my heart,
all marble with waters still untouched.
One, two, three belfries blossom in sound
and I still wait to smell your colors,
taste your thoughts, yet you unwind into yarn,
strings spilled in the air, while I sweat on
the weaver’s loom, getting your image wrong each time.
Your fag, ember long forgotten,
still carries your sucking kiss,
stolen by the smoke, curvy lust,
against the palomino sunset.
In the end I ask.
Was I your imagination to see,
what it would be to feel
unskilled, unfound, uncharted,
but completely someone else’s?
PS: Too tired to explain what went down today, which was almost nothing, but still mighty tiring. Here is a sweet poem just to make you feel longing too. :)