Drips of emotion hint at

between the drops of nude quotations popping by
you would almost speak
pregnant with baby words
not yet out, growing inside
trying to find the right way
the less slippery road to say
you wanted to let me go, it just wasn't working anymore.
you didn't want to make me explode
to scream at you, to accuse you
of so many things. I just needed someone
to lean on in times of trouble,
someone to comfort me through sex,
someone to stay with me for any reason
or even to scapegoat. my emotions
being only a seed
sleeping in the earth
peeping out with curious eyes.
you spoke about the freedom of the wind
and its touch
the passion which breaks one's self.
i was not the one for you.
i made you feel trapped
by repetition, no new movements
only variations on a theme
and i was sucking the life out of you
like a thankless vampire.
you could not stand me, i was an umbrella
a shade, certainly not the wind
not the stars which burned with cold passion.
there was a time when a kiss was a candle
that lit the heart
that was fed with the wax of the soul,
that grew in the lash of the wind, a kiss
that lit the senses and moved the petals of the heart
into sexual, unrelenting motion.
what is it now but a blank message of lips
signed with habit or ritual
almost a greeting kiss
that the french regularly give
and of sex. the body of love
the signature of our togetherness, it has
become a torment or a bore, our rhythms
astray
a difficult urbulent music, a fusion
of Asian and Parisian themes
which lead to an early end.
But yet, once or twice
we might have felt the lights of the Tower
burn with eyes and all the lights of our nerves
went out, one after the other.
now everything we do is a cultural experience
and we are anthrologists with fantasies?