In and Out of You or to Whomever It May Concern

 
I lie down inside myself,
Drowning in what I perceive to be you.
You’ve stolen away what was to be the last of me;
Pulling out the last of my insane depressions –
The trees of whose roots have somehow penetrated my mind’s soil.

You drop the petals from the breast of your roses,
That drip down in front of my eyes;
Falling like a snowflake, to the tip of my tongue, so dry,
As they, still moist with caresses, stick at the end of my nose,
Evaporating on the inside, in the infinities of my mind.

And then all of your flowers are picked up again, by some other gardener,
Like the smiles I’ve often travelled across to kiss your heavens,
As your universe has not become one unto mine yet,
For I’ve not been included in all of its days;
But where would I be, without a star to hang onto, anyway?

I’ve contemplated the splashing of your thighs and loins, indefinitely,
Whose artist’s brush canvasses the cities and countrysides I’d like to live in,
With the perfumed forest, I want my breath and blood swallowed into;
But the arms of your seas and oceans have not enthralled me,
For I am too cold to wade in those waters, just yet.