My breath holds dusts,
Like half-crumbling memoirs
Some figments from lost cities,
Some glitters from emerald tapestries,
Some bits of this maritime humidity
And frosted flakes of forgotten winters.
But I guess it’s for the better,
How no kiss came with complete abandon,
How your back under my nails,
Always shifted, uncomfortable
Betraying that tiniest bit of caution.
Scared, lest I transmit them-
Entire stories, captive under my eyelids
Entire worlds, inside my flesh and body.
Entire graveyards of almosts that died on my tongue.
Hand to hand, mouth to mouth,
More pamphlets, less poetry, reeking of my sedition.