Imagine.

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Can you see?
How
The rain imitates you.
Forces me to hold my breath
and anticipate this touch.

I am akin to
wild things
like rain on a hot summer day.

I can stand in the balcony for hours
Let the rain wet my hair
and slide down slowly
through my loosely hanging shirt.

Like your hands tracing their way
on my skin.
Rain feels familiar today.
As if I could collect you. All of you
in my palm.

Look above.
Even the clouds are jealous.

 

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Ivory tears.

 

Do not shed tears here
in my garden.
Even
these flowers have known
better lovers
than I.

At least the sun is a keen visitor.
Present almost every day
Like a regular customer
at a kind brothel
and these flowers,
the sun’s favorites.

Come embrace me one night
And show me everything that you want to do to me.
And maybe I could too indulge in the
sexual conversations
on hot summer days.

For how long
do I have to be jealous
of my own flowers?

 

This is after reading a lot from the poetry collection of Allen Ginsberg. Where the most of it emerges from his strong desires for sexual intercourse with other men. These above pictures of him and Peter Orlovsky, are strange in the same way love is. Where not all of it comes at once. But slowly. In midnight thoughts. Of your lover entering you, slowly, and of all the pleasure it gave you. You wake up and Blush. Because what else can you do. Who are you going to tell this to anyway?

Seasons.

Winter was harsh last year. The kind that makes your lips turn white and forget what your lover tastes like.
 
I have come to accept you leaving, as changing seasons. And today, on the first day of summer all my plants have bloomed again. But that does not mean I have forgotten last winter.
 
That does not mean I have forgotten writing to you, and then hiding them back somewhere in old notebooks. It’s summer now, but every time I find anything I wrote to you, it all flashes back.
The same nostalgia that I try and avoid every day. In plaid shirts, and when I occasionally win a game on quizup, (only you were much better at quizzes). And especially on days when a mutual friend shares my poetry and I know you must have come across it too. I can only imagine what you would think.
 
It’s funny because it’s like having Alzheimer’s in reverse. It’s funny, because it’s summer now, but I know I’m not allowed to forget about last winter.

Have you noticed the way the wind blows?

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Have you noticed
how soft does the wind blow today
as if it was sad from an old friend’s death
or just lazy
after a late Sunday nap.
 
How It makes me forget
even days when your voice was strong enough
to cut through human skin
There is kindness to it and I can touch it
In yellow leaves
falling on the first day of
spring.
 
And whatever it’s motifs might be
It fulfills all of mine.
And isn’t that what humans are about.

Renaissance.

 

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You could turn back time to entire centuries ago.
But what fun would that be?
To Love you in the renaissance,
And see you on tall windows.

I could compare you, your tears
To snowflakes on flower petals
they haven’t learned to exist in love yet.
but it looks pretty
so I let it be.

I could love you in the renaissance
but our love would be like
the flowers that have come to love
the snow before they felt the
sting. A sharp sensation.
And what fun would that be?

/i do not know what to call this/

rravenous

It is hard to remove
shrapnel from your skin
once they bury down as deep
as entire languages
in my home.

Sometimes I can hear my grandmother reciting
prayers in the other
room, her voice has faith
that I will turn out to be like my dad
insisting on fidelity.

She exhales a deep breath
And there is a short wait
Before words come back to me
I try, ‘Maybe we could change some of this.’
But there is no space for revolution,
where her words reside.

There are only veils I speak through.
Muffled voices
My words get stuck in between
My tongue and teeth.
It is difficult to remember the words today
And difficult to stay

In places
That give you such little room.
To be just a little
Queer.