The wind perhaps is most perceptible when we speak of change,
blowing empty thoughts to keep my glass refilled–
somewhere, someone’s heart beating for me, cares.
And when I sense you must be there,
my pulse quickens–
I would’ve followed a prettier road but that would’ve left no chance
of meeting you,
trickling slowly down the shaft of an incense candle
or what’s left of it really
I would’ve clung to familiar things had the prospect of appearing false
not occurred to me.
Ah, what then broke through? What once was sewn with a needle–
Perhaps my lips have always hungered for the taste of danger,
of metamorphosis delicately coating my tongue,
you know I do, don’t you?
Photo credits: Marta Bevacqua, Drifting down to the ground