MY TREE HANDS

Perhaps, in all these years,
people weren't that cruel
and I didn't need to swallow all that ash
of dull smiles between the lips.

Maybe I didn't notice and left on the street
stumps of missing hugs,
like mournful candlesticks
turned on to my loneliness.

For this I am satisfied
to warm myself with crumbled phoenixes;
and I've spent bland days,
with his mouth too full of me to talk about love.

It would have been nice to lean on each other,
like hands on glass,
but I didn't have the courage to undress,
because being transparent is fragile,
and it's easy to break.

%d bloggers like this: