Why don’t you embrace me as me,
as who I am:
your true lover?
Why don’t you see the thirst of Gods,
on my lips, in my tongue
for the veiled nectar of your soul,
for the Goddess of your existence?
I am yours
shedding the blood of my innocence,
like a sacrificial lamb
to your red lips
suckle the pomegranate sap in my veins,
my rest
on the pillow of your heartbeats,
in the temple of your breast
that no matter how bitten and old,
regardless of the shade
enliven the night all in white marble.
your temple
is my temporal loops
of the perpetual links
to the bloodline of sublimation.
Why can’t you see my longings,
as the scorching itch
on the wings of moth,
in a mouth,
afire from the sweet taste of burning passion,
the flavour, the invitation to fire,
when sun inflames orchard?
Learning you is like marbles learning to waltz
with the sculpting chisels,
learning magic
drawing the Aphrodite of Milos
out of the hat of
their forgotten memory,
like history written in gold
with the sunburn wounds of heroes,
like when
for the sake of rosy posy
the dagger of your pen must dunk
in the red ink of your blood
to be able to paint
red roses on your words,
to blossom,
to climb the ladder of thorns
in your open wounds,
step by step,
in the deep lashes of burn
dragging you along
the crucifixion of your truth.
