: nine hundred kilometers.
I write you poems made of the words
I wanted you to read like Braille
directly on my lips.
This is the house I live in
with walls painted yellow-absence.
Contrary to what many might think,
it is not easy to find
furniture to go with the dye.
This is my collection of screams.
There are as many as the days
I had to learn without your imaginings
and laughter and words
I would hear from no other soul.
This is a fold in time.
You tell me repeatedly
you cannot be mine.
I bravely hold my position in space
as if this was an argument
I could not lose.
Is this a revision of an older poem, Kenia? I feel that I read it before, but like its power equally this time around, but am paying more attention to the collection of screams compacted and turned into stubbornness here.
ReplyDeleteIt's not a revision. I don't often revisit old poems, though there are words in this one I like very much and you use sometimes, this may have given you the feeling you have read it before. :) Kiss.
DeleteYes. This is now a favorite!
DeleteYou write so truthfully of unrequited love - it sears me to the heart every time. The tenacity shown in each one speaks of the best portion of human love - the hope, the belief, the trust that everyone deserves a happy ending.
ReplyDeleteThis new poem is already a favourite of mine.
you don't, ever, leave me unmoved with your anti-love poetry, Kenia. ~
ReplyDelete