Rain

.
Hands lust into her thighs_
into secrets kept for long,
now told_
in the middle of the night.

Those are not my hands, though.
Mine hold pen and paper,
they drive words out of me,
war them off my heart.

As the rain falls outside I,
foolishly,
remeber.

trecho de desenho do *tonysandoval

The making

.
She is made of wrists and shoulders,
of ankles, knees and cheeks.
She is made of moss and poison weeds.
She is made of words, worlds and tears.
She is all that I love and I hate,
built in a shape, so foul, so fair.