When I die, I’d like Rama to be painted on my lips,

his name graven into the shivering fish of my mouth,

each tooth an alphabet of his,

each letter sending home

a gift of love so true,

the body rendered useless,

 skin just memory of a you that never existed,

a life’s dream,

and the funeral:

a steady, yielding, unrelenting kiss

that drifts simply

into emptiness,

into endlessness.

Leave a Comment

Send this to a friend