You were a figurine in my snow-globe.
It was early morning, white streets,
drunk on lust and shaman-charms.
I accepted your touch like I'd never felt,
and I hadn't.
You stayed there, in my bed
for two nights and three days.
You didn't want to eat, or leave.
You drank water and rushed to the toilet.
I'd fall asleep
with your hands, your fingers
tracing every strange centimeter
on this peculiar man, laying beside you
and I would wake
to the palpatory witchcraft
like your fingers had insomnia.
I wonder now, what it was you saw;
what your fingers told your brain,
or if it was a curse
to bend my thoughts and words
back to you.
You set your memory in iron.
I'm still waiting for it to rust.