Visceral

I will pamper you
with breakfast
on the bed,
red roses,
and the finest chocolate.
 
Will you treat me
with pillow talk,
warm hugs,
and wet kisses?
 
I will go down on you,
paint your toenails,
chase you breathless
on the warm sands
and crescendoes.
 
Will you give me
one more chance
when my hands tremble
to hold a cup of tea?
 
I will still trace a smiley
on a misted mirror
after your hot shower
on a late winter afternoon.
 
Will you listen
to the ticking of my clock,
and the violence of my words
that became poetry?

We, the breathing

People
mistake it for love.
 
Put two people
under the same roof.
They breathe the same air,
they listen to the same sounds,
they sigh, they belch, they snort,
they stare at the same peeling wallpaper,
they even have sex sometimes,
on Sundays, after a heavy dinner,
no lights, no tongue, no bite,
just bare minimum contact
that qualifies as sex.
 
People
mistake love
for something more spectacular.

What are we when we close our eyes?

Against the blackness
they say
we are stardust
in flesh, blood, and bones.
 
It’s all a sham.

When I look up at the sky,
the clouds, the stars, the fairy lights,
are stickers,
stick figures.
 
What are we?
Less than that.