Number 10

I opened my wounds to you, my love,

when you sat in the darkness

on the brim 

of what we were allowed to,

when you started sliding 

my willpower 

and my needs 

like an automatic door,

when I thought, 

on that dwindling motion, 

that I could have bath 

my lips of that salty water 

forever,

when you tumulted the valley 

of my bowels 

with your finger, 

when you stole the pulse of my breath climbing up my stomach, 

and you gave it back 

to me 

when encircling the fences 

of my breast.
I opened my wounds to you, 

my love, 

when your eyes,

your silence,

your tremor,

your hands,

they showed me 

the path to your wounds.

But you know

I refused, I left that book

closed,

and so did you with mine,

because why declaiming 

that poems of the past 

with sorrow

when we can cheerfully sing 

new hymns

to this limited, 

abundant  

present?

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