A Ditch on the Road to your Body
Let every month be November with electric euphoria.
May tenderness be born from one of your bones,
and James Dean's laughter go up in flames,
may you show me the scars you no longer remember.
I touched your arm, a ditch on the road to your body.
I touched the open scar. You laughed and closed your eyes,
your laughter told me that you were naked
between wild horses. Back then, you didn't hear me praise
your sense of emptiness, that sweetish scratch on the skin of your back.
I wanted to wrap myself around your red-blooded-James-Dean jacket and
lick the layers of oil, dirt, dust, adhering to your heart.
Some speechless voice told me, when I supported my head on your hip,
or when you rode me and our testicles
folded into each other
and I thought we sailed
a path of wires, threads,
that the scar was still fresh in your memory.
I wanted to get into your shirt and walk
on the beach of your wet feet,
and help you get into the new pants I bought you.
Let me burn those afternoons at close range of all your goodbyes,
along with your James Dean laughter so we can live.