At this stage in my life I don’t think I'm going to write anything worthwhile.

miércoles, 18 de junio de 2014


The array of stars gone shy
and bashful
under the gaze of seven billion
watchful eyes.
You undress facing the window.
You think
the moon understands
what it means to feel
exposed; you think
the moon never turns her back
for a reason.
You think the moon
would kiss you like a southern solstice—
peel herself from the sky
and love you for every hour
that the sun’s up.

All this naked sky, and
you—
with your shaking ribs,
you—
with your aching hands,
you—
too afraid to love the sunlight.

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