I didn’t want to write
another syrupy poem about you.
I didn’t want to see you sagging
in the morning light like sugar
in simmering heart sauce.
But the metaphor was blinding.
A line curves from your spine
back to my finger before falling
off the horizon of your breast.
It recycles itself in circles
forming a new and better you.
But the problem with recycling
is memory bites back in anger.
Too many moments thrown away.
Those sad and beautiful colors
reuse me over and over.
LOCATION: Florianopolis, Brazil – Thinking about the past, preparing for the future.
