You don't know this, but I've been having sex with you
Not the kind where you put body against body
Although we do have bodies
And I'm sure they'd fit well together
Complete with their knuckles and earlobes and
names that sound like sweet tongue rolls suitable for goddesses like
areola and fibula
and I'm sure that there's an atom on my hip that would
love to search yours for its missing electron
but, I'm not talking about that kind of sex
see, in the beginning there was a thought and that thought became a word and
that word became a poem so long it could not be bound by two covers
to mark beginning and end so the author broke it into parts
and gave us each our own page
and I've been reading and rereading mine for a long time now
breaking down the metaphors and similes
deciphering the symbolism and irony and
every time I get to the last line, I think
it shouldn't end this way
because my page doesn't make sense without your page
See, on my page there's a city
With boxes stacked on boxes
Full of concrete and stories the shouts
and sirens collect in my marrow
And there are actually people that are terrified of red lights
Because they allow enough time to stop and complete a thought
They are trapped by skin and cheap dialogue
How are you? I'm fine? Working hard? Hardly working.
Can you believe the weather? I can't believe it
They can't believe anything
And so, they can't see anything that they don't believe
I take to the streets
Suspended in the breath of my city like a dreamcatcher dangling from a rear view mirror when I hear a sound
It starts off quiet,
Like a scream under a pillow
And then it gets louder and louder until it becomes a voice behind a microphone from 20 pages away
And I walk faster and faster until I am standing face to face with you and you enter me
And we exchange chords like fluids, the hum of my street lamp for the slow horn of your freight car
The swirling melodic smoke of my blues trumpets for your bare feet slapping against riverstone
And I become you and you become me and it all becomes too much to keep in so I
The same note as the cosmos
Which researchers show is a B flat
See, you don't need a matress or a back seat to experience this ecstacy
This is what we were written for
Skin becomes trivial when you are taking and giving in infinite creativity
And when you leave me
I lay my face down on the warm pavement
And instead of wishing for the smell of evergreens and coffeebeans, I just inhale
The truck tires, the honey buskits, the redbud trees and I give thanks
Because each line finally makes sense
I'm not the author, I'm just the scribe
Always scribbling my own thoughts into the margin of our poem
But I just thought you should know
That ive been having sex with you
And you are damn good

ENVIAR CORRECCIONES