I don’t let you see my poems anymore.
[We have crossed the beginning,
And now, we are moving
Towards the middle
Where triggering the infatuation
May lead to an open-ended tragedy]
I know it is difficult for you to absorb
Spectator’s opinions about the subjects,
Like the difficulty you face in kissing
The taut, watery bristles my breasts carry,
You come to me in the dark, just to avoid
The ugly blemished sight of small gutters,
With a hundred-thousand love-veil on your face.
Of course, love is still there.
[ Maybe, we want to end it in the middle]
It is your breathing that I do not want to make difficult for you
So, I cover and coil my breasts with thin linen of acceptance and distance.
of course, love is still there in the air between veils and linen.
Neither among us deny that. Cannot.
The poems still exhale protective stinky fluids,
To smudge faces, to keep their opinions away,
Like the vesicles secrete crude oils to mark your distance
[End is certainly a delusion]
Photo title: Georgia O’Keeffe’s Neck