Fuck

Most likely, the only thing I will remember in the morning
is the way your breath smelled
when you kissed poems into my ear
and the way you lifted my shirt
over my head
when I was ready to fall asleep.

Most likely, the only thing you will remember in the morning
is nothing
except the thrashing of body heat against body heat,
skin cells against skin cells
and the way the sun shone through
as if the day was in on a secret
that was only meant for the room.

It is likely that we will do this again some time.
That the nights and days will combine, again,
unaware that my legs are spread.
I keep myself awake because I miss you,
sitting like an owl on a dusty park bench
instead of a tree branch.
We met in the winter,
when the birds were already dead.
I watched you share your wallet with a homeless man;
he turned into a businessman
as you turned into a saint.
I let you fuck me because I fell in love
with your halo.
I let you stay in my bed because I hoped
to see it in the morning;
have its light wake me,
a sun reborn
in the motherland of my eyes.