I write because there are things in me that cannot die.

There is a moon,that rests in the quiet cornersof a lover’s lips.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one?

in the endit is wordspoetry. sunsetssomeone’s deep blue silk voice.mountain scents.someone’s smile.eyes. that we haveno defenses against.

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

May the nights always be aglowwith the bliss of the daywith unharmed hands and feetand kissed cheeks.

We hold on to poetry because it lights a fire in our soul and keeps our bodies warm.