her desires are to be written about.
placing cheeks on grass,
the violent urge to not have regrets,
clicking wild horses running,
sprinting with trees and,
entering a new dimension,
from under the water body.

her needs are embeciles' needs,
and she loves this bit the most.

-

a part of night in his hair,
scattered sunrises in his freckles.
maps of worlds and spaces,
his eyes set in between.
and of all people,
of them all, really,
he tells me, he loves
waking up besides me.

-

winds in dilli
hurt me like
guns in gaza.

-

you.

-

they tell me that the human
brain plays all happy memories
after we're dead.

i am worried.

how will i cross the
bridge after living my
whole fucking life
with you again?

-

-

it's some days past march,
ive been breathing for some decades
but at 4:06 pm today, i felt alive,
after a very long time.
almost felt like the first.
and, it's not so bad.

-

i don't know what my lashes are for?
they can't go down your throat,
they don't make you bleed.

what do they do?

-

when i close my eyes
to remember the good times...

it's him. always him.
resting on his face.
hand on his heart.
fingers in his hair.
him. only. always. him.

-

i rest his head to my bossom.
he cries. my lover cries.
my rib cage drinks his tears.
he cries. my lover cries.
i rub his back, kiss his hair.
tighten fingers over his shoulder.
he looks me in my eyes,
then on my lips,
eyes again,
now lips.
i hold his lips.
with my lips.
his tears touch the mole
above my lip. he cries.
my lover cries.

-