Winter came with it's lazy snow
trapping us in our houses
on uncomfortable chairs
writing messages in smoke
pretending we are not us,
but lovers, into a gentle madness
where I touch your clear shoulders
and find their softness
unsafe for a kiss, where I tell my breath
to wait, afraid that I might blow you
like the smoke of a cigarette, and where
the sirens who sleep on your fingertips
move across so many of my ribs,
poking me with their silent smiles,
not knowing that I always keep
heavy things in my pockets,
so I don't get too carried away
and scratch my heartbeats
on the inside of your mouth,
as some form of sinning,
like the parts of you
I already know by taste.
Winter passed and then
your letters arrived late on me,
but of course I still tilted my head
way back and let the letters fall
into my mouth and dissolve on my tongue
like snow or something better.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
excellent write, glad to see someone with some actual talent on here, keep on. ben