deepundergroundpoetry.com
were love not more beautiful
…knocked on heaven’s door
but no one was home…
this is the room where I loved her
or maybe we called it love
because we had no other name for it
there was sex, & intimate conversations;
she spoke about other men
things they did to her.
things she wanted, perhaps needed,
that they would not do.
she wore no makeup, except for one time
when she had a function to attend.
when she came to the room after midnight
she had paint around her eyes
and on her lips, waxen, very deep, & red.
she looked like a woman for purchase, a prostitute.
I told her that, & I would not kiss her.
she stayed in the bath for several minutes;
when she came out, the vile scarlet was gone
and so we kissed.
every woman is a poem
and the poem that was her
was the unholy brooding of a monk in a hermitage,
and thus it remained unwritten.
she had tattoos
and these were the sorrows etched into her skin;
there were roses with withered petals on her back
but the stems were rampant with perilous thorns
and it grieved me because I was among them.
this was her story, & it was all of sadness.
she said that our kisses would run out one day
and I told her that I would never kiss her for the last time.
but she avowed that on the day
when I left her without telling her why
and I kissed her; our last kiss; she would know...
(Art: Emmanuel Sougez)
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