She is here in the bed,
sitting by the window and perhaps trying to find the moon,
the waning moon.
She has some brown in her black hair…
I think this night can’t be as brown as hers.
I don’t know how much distance she is trying to gaze through the windy thickness.
May be the distance of two drinks; separated by the wild fire.
Though I forget things in a snap of a finger but I think I am going to have a hard time forgetting her.
She also writes poetries…I don’t like them…they mostly linger on flowers and vines and souls and spiritual sex…
I think she lacks experiences in her writings.
But she knows rivers from her eyes and throttles of jet planes from her breasts.
These warm and sweaty bodies are proof that we never were capitalists in our own affair…
I know she is going to break down by the nudity of this moonless time…and I have always wanted to hold my women tight during separation.
That way you can feel the melodies in your dying.
I don’t think nights will ever be as brown as tonight for me…I know I don’t have to fight a war against love again…
You don’t kill an alcoholic madman…either you kill his alcohol or his madness.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Nancy Moniz.