Dark Blue

A moon over the Bay of Bengal and silver light
All that poetry you wrote in white ink
Is still swimming in stormy oceans in the night.

What would I do to hear you say my name?
What would you do to hear me say 
your name?

Three bleeding foreheads 
Two lacerated veins
One clay lamp.
An endless winter of vision made 
hazy with 
French vanilla flavored tobacco smoke.

Parc Guell in November
And you put my hand on your heart and asked
Does it seem like I'm dying?
And I said, "Your eyes are gray."
So you played Shape of My Heart
And read a little Nabokov
And we never thought it would end.

I make the journey sixty-nine billion times everyday
To where one endless winter
I had died happily by the hands of a foreign man
But I'm too inhibited, too human to cross the threshold
So I do what you want
And stand in the sun looking back at an endless winter.
And then I realize that was December then and this is December now.
And endless seasons within have passed.