...Isn’t This True My Beloved?...
I did not want to distinguish the aorta expelled in ink, as black and fluid as this; amongst other thoughts.
How your hello made my soul into combustible lights.
The ones that fall from the sky as real and imagined as bullet holes...Whispers like nicotine…
I ask my penitentiary of tired stars.
Do I evaporate slowly tonight?
Maybe, it is not this evening to say farewell to the hollows of the earth.
Just cupped hands. Warm spaces that chisel, and my notes are cinder.
I have come to believe that I am in need of a form such as yours.
Isn’t this true my beloved of how we free ourselves?...
My tired star.
My light from my penitentiary of ink.
© Mimi Caneda Mata
(My Letters To Jose)
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