From the bedroom of our cheap apartment in Barcelona. A poem about guilt in love:

Between these kisses
our kisses. Now, tonight, here.
I run my fingers through your hair,
and hear your parting lips:

Letting free the ecstatic breath,
the quivering, tender skin.
A feather, a petal in hot wind,
billowing over so many flower beds.

The light breaking through
our closed curtains. The brass light
shining on your pale skin:
Dying it in bronze cast
for me.

But you move a little lower.
To reach my lips much quicker
and your eyes now open up for me.

Why? Why now?

I can see your brown eyes,
blending in with the light from the street.
And I can see your pupils
dropping off into night.

I have seen these eyes before.
I have seen them curve with smiles.
But not from you, my love.
Another. Not you.

These eyes were worn in this bed,
the mask you don is used.
And all I feel is shame
as they look back at me
with you


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