She had once written on my scrapbook
“I love you without problems or pride”
She was no poet. She didn’t speak much English
She never spoke much anyways other than with her eyes.
Every morning she used to cruelly chastise the stars when
The night had left us without intimation but in intimacy.
She believed that daytime is for priests and politicians
And the darkness is for lesser mortals like us. Insolvent.
I had craved to be her 1947 fountain pen that
Drafted her Sociology notes and held her hair.
She used to laugh at fate and television with the same fervor.
Her laughter always reminded me of a mountain brook
Many a night I had drowned in it my crown and composure
And had died happily in my 17 year old death of freedom.
She had once explained to me in a local train that
The best politics happened between the flowers and springtime.
In her eyes I had seen dawns that shadowed all other dawns
In her breath I had smelt death that felt like Marilyn Monroe.
Desire and envy had chained me like a Roman galley slave to her
She had made me murder my soul and sleep with the same knife
Her love was cheap and saline that fired my breath
And complemented my cheap liquor, while I felt like Bobby Dylan.
It seems she had come from a secret right wing democrats
With a search warrant for my sanity.
Hypnotizing me with the scent of springtime in her breasts
Now they smell of stale flesh…and she has reduced to just another woman.
....very good
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