in a dark and silent room, i danced and wept
I
how many steps does it take
to unmake a dance?
like the one we did that night i
ripped down the moon from the sky.
when you and i, strangers,
with familiar voices,
made love with our silent
tongues. your skin in mine,
mine in yours. seas of galaxies
in between. drifting us
into the celestial corner
of grief and forgetfulness.
II
we rode the dark regions
of deserted streets.
in the company of incessant words
echoing along the ridges
of despair and loneliness.
sat on a park bench waiting
for the stars to slip their scarves.
on a bed, where i never dreamt
of steps guarded with kisses,
i've stolen one. From a forgotten
sky that never learned to vow
before wooden gods, i was kneeling
on your aisle.
III
once i was a comrade
who secretly counted
blank faces in a revolution,
now i count moons that travel
in your face. i see golden stalks
that sway with your eyes.
i smell the rain-soaked earth,
sensual breath that scatters me
into deep sleep. sleep.
then your face again.
then your lips. then the moons.
i gravitate to you.
sleep. light sleep.
IV
loving is never laughter.
it never will be.
it is an alabaster formed
with tear drops.
mined by leave-takings.
made precious by
melancholy and solitude.
shaped by snatches
of recollection.
then hidden in a box
where no other eyes
could pry on its sadness.
except yours.
V
how many steps does it take
to unmake a dance?
when the dancers drift
into their own quiet corners,
does it end there? does it
lash back like a whip
once the music starts?
or does it dance forever
the land, looking for the right
desolation, once again
to harvest from the earth,
a handful of alabaster
made of tears?
