NaPoWriMo # 35

On a whitewashed wall in the fortified city of your body



I come to you slowly. You say something I don't understand. You laugh. Write your name on my abdomen. I walk from the edge of my body to yours. Sleepwalkers like us don't distinguish between reality and desire. To us reality is wider, more tangible, more corporal. It’s a garden in the bedroom, a thick weave of braided hair, an endless hieroglyph tangled in our legs, and rarely can we find someone to decrypt, read, or write it on our bodies.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Undertow Poetry Review, La Resaca First Issue

Lucecita Benitez - Cabalgata