...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)