Resurrection

I remember
we were selfless, innocent -
we were children who still believed in ginger
tea parties and we held love with both palms
as if it was a pair of glinting cups;
we drank it before each midnight then rested
with pollens trifling in our nostrils.

Perhaps, we were more of two
random elks running forever along a nameless
wood, a todos lados, and then in a guava-scented
morning, you'd known I was meant
to be sculptured amidst your hoof.

I remember
our colors were the wake of naked poetry,
and the arousal of turbulent liquors; we were
a miracle; the pungent strikes of lightning,
a tulips-dressed dream in the 7th of September -
when I first made love to your voice, when
you first saw petrels in
my laugh.

Yet time resurrected us into a
life of rusty tinplates, we sat with salt
in our mouths and talked of love.
We smirked, lurked for the daylight and
killed it, then
slept to the sounds of an illusive
hymn.

I guess when we died in each
other, death cringed.

We just died.

And forgot how
we once perfected
each other like pressed lineaments in the skin
of a withered face.