my muse, so close,
through me,
for I am now your hands
and for every lover afraid
to cross their oceans,
infinite rivers of ink shall happen:
the paper will cry whirlwinds,
heart of a symphony,
transcending all that dared stand
between the new lives of our words;
can an idea dance
as your spirals do
wandering every horizon
from your highest peaks,
before descending once more
into the world?
And from there—
speak a philosophy
in the language of eroticism,
becoming fugitives from the bodies
where poetry could never happen,
for they were never meant to be,
carving all your geography in marble,
from the unspoken to an eternal verse,
to inscribe you beyond the sea of time.
Olives wandering the Mediterranean,
like sunflowers forever finding their way home,
and their seeds blooming,
to be roasted in salt,
becoming the milk and nectar of your lands,
born from the marble of the northern
mountains of your wildest forests,
toward the south of your hives,
traveling the bitter oranges of my Seville,
until they all become streets
bearing the plum-sweet essence of you.
And the moon?
I have crossed the Mediterranean,
their forests, their mountains, Seville,
the streets, and all their fragrances.
Yet where has my moon gone?
There she is above,
everlasting, looking on us,
finding her smile in your face,
for I know I will sculpt her
from the same eyes of yours.
Everything about you is
made of whirlwinds of ink,
beyond the sea of time.
—whenever I come closer to you,
your storms rise over us;
yet it’s your body I’m trying to reach;
what am I doing with the echo of you,
when, again, we cannot survive
even our skyline
—yours,
mine.