Your Poem by Castro

And we met again, my minotaur.
At night, we walked to that tiny joint you like,
Where we talked about things I didn’t care about.
For all I wanted, was to break our distance.
The one I had created.
At times, to hear you better,
I pressed my face to yours.
And you allowed it.
And we were both sad.
You with your problems, that I didn’t care about.
And me, with the disorders that me.
And we laughed.
And you told me how nice it was the backyard in the summer.
And I remember,
So vividly,
How I wished I could go back there then.
With you.
So in the heat of that summer night
We might feel happy.

And how beautiful your face is!
All Greek and inspiring.
It makes me want to write.
To write stories of revenge and hair pulling
as melodramatic as this poem.
Your poem.

We talked.
We laughed.
So I pressed my face a bit harder.
To warm me up.
A warmth lost in the curls of your face.
And maybe I’m the only one that feels an intransigent connection,
Which I enjoy
from the understanding that nothing will happen.
An emotional safety.

And you talked.
I observed you.
I observed you with the intensity you deserve for your virility.
And we laughed.  And we were gloomy.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by you.
And that warmth I had experienced
grabbed me by the throat.
And I became water.
And my eyes,
Full of you.

I don’t think you realised.
You were immersed in your habit.
The one I despise.
Rolling another of your cigarettes.
Always with the same commitment and enjoyment
I wish was dedicated to me.
Platonically.
Since we both know it is the only way.

So there I was,
Liquified.
Maybe it was the day.
Or maybe, I just felt your pain through the cold warmth you shared with me,
And I was able to half express what you couldn’t.
But, I was there.
All watery.
Standing in front of you.
Unaware.

You looked up and smiled.
In my need to need you
I pressed, once again, my beard against yours.
My minotaur.
Once again.
Forever.

We carried on until high.
The same chemical self-destruction
we are so familiar with.
And I felt better.
Until I was disappointed.
And it’s true that most times
I don’t know what I want.
Maybe, I just want to suffer.
Since pain offers certainty.
Or maybe not.
So you came home.
And in my bed you rested your depression
so tenderly that it became entangled with mine.
We had sex.
I was detached.

You and I.
Forever.
Until a few hours later,
When you, thankfully, left me for that habit I had learnt to admire.