It's February Again​

 

And your petal-lips still taste
of harmattan-dust and grief.
Your chubby cheeks still pressed
against the juiceless thigh
of an ancient white weathered
marble. You, little old wise soul.
Restless dreamer. Shirtless mourner.
Tell me. What tearless-grief stripped
you of your youth and juvenile tenderness?
You, little, quiet, lifeless lover .
Innocent culprit. Pretty thing.
Ashen body. Tell me. What gangrenous
hand clothed your silk skin with lichen?
You, little sleeping Plaything
of a boy. Reluctant lover. Wake up
from your cold-stone sleep. Let's make up.
You, blazing-filthy-brittle-thing.
You, wingless-wandering-thing.
A bird without feathers.
Arise from your alabaster slumber.
Come drown your worries in the river of love.
Let the water wash over you.
Let the water wash your bloodshot eyes
of this stupor and dizziness
and see how swift desire sailed us to the shore
of ecstasy. Tell me. Why sleep on cold marble
when the warmth of my breath can melt your frozen ache?
Why nest your head on dead stone
when this brittle, burning body is your bedsheet.
When this warm blanket is a velvet coat. Expectant altar –
Incense. Blood. Sweat.
Wake up,
Lover boy, follow me. And I’ll make you a fisher of gems.

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