Writing

I am writing this poemwithout hands or pen, but with my eyes.I am writing with the troubled tearsof this evening with its graying moon,that has locked its dreams in the shells of a seathat dried upon our skin.

I am writing this poemwith lips that in the tumult of kissestrace lifebeneath your footsteps, somewhere in waiting.

I am writing this poemwith the clamor of your soulthat startles the closing eyes of the nightand darkens the sky and time.

I am writing with breath,with the night’s footsteps turning to ash in my body,with the resting of reveriesthat shake their hopes into the glass of winewith no marks of lips upon it,with no signs of life in the red drops of oblivion.

I am writing this poem with the tremors of the heartthat thirst for another departure,another sun to set in the sheets of a maddening wait.

Since I no longer know in which words to lose you,I pray endlessly to the Saints of poetry!I want to lose you,I want to empty my whole soul and body ofthe ghost of your breath,and to break free, to be untethered from timelike a flight that seeks to clingto the back of a sky that will be bornonly for me, entirely for Me!