The surfaces of people’s bodies get blurred in times when days and nights dissolve into each other,
like twilight, like dawn.
She is there above the old staircases
as a shadow, as an attire,
as a pallet of pierced sky.
I don’t know what she has found in me,
women in love is something like a break less automobile in an inclined plane of aesthetic pines,
fierce and something consisting the peak of life,
the nothingness before death.
Stars don’t have the ability to question us,
sequential oceans don’t have the ability to question us,
but they can test us…they can test how far our imaginations can go for that glittering topaz.
We both are tested, we both have intercourses on the planes of scarred souls
and I know if she rolls down this questionable steps,
the night will still be starry,
the winds will still roar along the summer skirts of hookers.
It’s better this way…this distance of measured steps,
this rhythmic segregation…
this is what a boxer needs for symphonies,
this is what a musician needs for getting high in mushrooms,
and poets…they always smile and take moments to throw this in the moods of a sterile existence.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Theendivechronicles.com