Who's Afraid of Pablo Neruda?
Products of my recent love affair with prosetry.
And if you leave before it’s over, I will torture you with visions of my mouth when I put on mascara; my lips forming an oval then an arch like a half-sunken sun.
The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.
We are sitting at a table on the terrace, blowing smoke into our coffee, and throwing our heads back to laugh.
I fear that I loved you so much I made you up. Wrapped in a towel, I look for evidence of your being here; your empty coffee mug on the table, a pound coin on the kitchen floor...
My arms began negotiations with sharp edges. But I somehow survived the winter; a fond memory leant against my door like a snow shovel.
Sunlight dribbles down the learning curve of my back as I arch over you, bridging the gap of years, experience, and tears.
Prayers return to my lips like a reluctant lover. Now I talk to God the way one talks to a coma patient...
And now, what is left after the end of the world? The dark smell of brown sugar in an empty kitchen, my cousins playing cricket in the park...