To Anais Nin, who wrote “I want to kiss a man whose passion rushes like lava through a chill intellectual world.”
Rain beats against the windowpane
the pulse of the night
singing us a somber lullaby.
Bare skinned you lay
beside me
silence sweltering
heat quiet
your heartbeat
imperceptibly soft
and melancholy, following along the
rhythm of the rain.
I lay on my back, but my eyes
watch yours
flutter with dreams
try to feel what reverberations
echo in your unconscious.
To dive
into your brain, through the dent
of childhood and the grooves of
your journey to New York.
How did such
soft eyes
rest on mine
and stay?
How did two such souls
as ours
end up on this bed in Bushwick
lush in rain and silence.
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