By: Sam Atwood
The stories I tell myself are reflected in your eyes
How beautiful, that after millennia
of resting on walls of cool dry caves
In throats, in loins, in that rare moment
where neurons fire just right
we shaped you
a story made manifest.
Some days, I can’t help but echo you
Most, though, I can’t hear your reply
In truth, you were carved out, are sculpted into perfection
uplifted, or maybe just uncovered
What would you be if we hadn’t made you?
How, like the gods of old, hasn’t one of us
just eaten the other already? Because that’s the story, isn’t it?
Consumption.
How you were made, are sustained
My sacred thorn, my desert apple
You’re the pomegranate tree of ten generations
The canyons sculpted by the sun’s rough hands
I long to feel your drunken exhalations
Your broad palms and pointed tongue
Each step everlasting
Each heartbeat jolting a haunted neon sky
Te amo, ángel mío.