Come, I will tell you

the one true story of my life.

you might find it disconcerting because it does not include passion.

there are no descriptions about daffodils rising forward; no solace in boredom.

my life is made of soft velvet.

it is a story that begins with smoking fat cigarettes at dawn and ends while chasing new promises around corners.

in it is a dew drop mixed with the milk of the cities and the slow waiting of harbors.

my life is a lover who has forgotten about the way i smell.

it is a hand let go, suddenly.

indeed, there are deaths of remonstrations.

there are swift songs of the wind.

in it, too, is a crease on a page and hole in the nook.

it is me saying o yes, innocence with cherries on top please please god.

my life is a cat that licked the rest of the cream. it was always a hungry little bugger.

at times, it is a window. you must not use it as an alleyway.

there are always pictures of me walking against traffic, carrying salvation in a purse.

i am a mountain of kisses and a grave of clocks.

(you are in it. you wake me up sometimes.
and with my eyes open, i look surprised everytime i realize that I am still here.so much so that my mouth opens, gapes into a balloon that is flying towards something, always farther away.)