A scholar told this to a little prince, on a planet that will remain unmarked by the astronomer's lens, as your hands will remain unmarked by my thighs.
You wilted before I could smell the incense of your breasts, or feel the softness of your petals, before I could kiss your lips that always seemed shaped like bell-flowers - dainty and unafraid.
It was I who feared the breaths that came between us, like a shadow, until there was only sunlight, and the stillness of your body.
I have forgotten how to mourn - they tried to teach me once, in kindergarten. They told me I was meant to cry, but my eyes have grown drier than the deserts in which we planned hikes we will never take.
My mother tells me that I need "closure", but how does one close something that was never opened; the bud did not become a flower, and slowly you morphed into corny metaphors.
Have I morphed into a man?
Have I grown thorns?
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