You enter me as a cathedral,
my arms are coloured crystal,
two stained roses, whose vines wrap
around you, cutting into the artery
of your contemplation, causing
memories to shatter in the sunblood.
We are strangers to ourselves
in the interval, in the moonblood.
An ethereal music flows through
our mouths, with an ancient echo
that breathes outside the window,
where a foreign woman undresses
in the shadow of love’s betrayal.
I am a bird cut from paper
against the matchstick of your lips.
Our love is a blur of unclear glass,
a dream burning in infinite fire,
a cracked boat crossing
a river of ice in the heart of spring,
leaving us clinging to nothing.
There’s a comet dying in darkness,
we can see it on fire in the distance,
where we stare at the anguish
traced from the sky’s photograph,
captured during a lonely century,
in which we lived and lost all hope for flight.