over the sting

My scorpion, you inspire me to write
in secret about the times I have held your hand
without the sting over my skin

girls on the side of the road

To the girls left on the side road

that I cannot help

I cannot even pretend

to know how you feel

like odd birds

Yesterday's discarded clothes on the table
you speak of desire like one speaks of birds
flying at odd directions, in odd hours
I listen as I put the clothes back in their shelves

After the music, bodies

Your body, left like yesterday's clothes
old music, neither indie nor popular
some form of a symphony that bridges 
the space left on the bed

Dream ciphered

How this, I can see it clearly,
your arm, warm and hairy wrapped around my shoulder

I know it is wrong
the feeling that comes without my awakening

even with closed eyes
I can tell another woman's ring is on your finger

I don't budge
I don't open my eyes

instead I turn to look at your face
its details crafting a new explanation

to the term between the sheets
to synonyms to making love

an orgasm for the lonely times
without feeling the pangs

a throbbing of a definite sin
on a last day of fasting

but in the dream world
coded as in I want you

as in I need you
as in let me touch your body

or allow yourself to touch me once
again, even if I am sleeping

in my sleep.