you pull at the seams of me,

they sway, they twist, they tremble with your presence,

i touch your lips, taste you,

smell the electric heat between your iron skin and soft heart,

each movement becomes a conversation,

each glance makes me naked,

each touch haunts my body,

you pull, i surrender.

we dance between pulse and pull,

you strip me to the bone,

you taste every part of me,

the madness of you

devours me,

and i beg for more.

i glide over your prayer beads,

crushing them beneath my bare, wet, soft feet,

i hear them shriek, broken echoes of church bells and minarets,

the hiss that never reaches,

your gods tremble in silence,

for i am the truth you crave,

the madness that shatters your faith.

you may find me at the bus stop,

or a few steps behind the café

you recommended,

the one where you never showed up on time.

you may find me riding the waves with you.

remember greece?

you wanted it so badly

and ended with a sprained leg,

blaming me for the chaos,

i didn’t mind.

or maybe at the next u-turn,

not toward your house.

i hate that place.

all life sucked out,

rooms thick with suffocation.

and yet, you keep searching.

i know you too well.

i’m just a few whispers away,

watching, waiting,

letting the silence do the talking.

look for me, if you want.

it might be too late.

or maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly right.

i threw a cactus

on your empty, broken coffin.

you’re welcome.

i took your hand,

pressed it

against my boneless cheek.

say something,

say something,

say something, god damn it!

did you wear the tie your mother gave you,

the one used to strangle her,

the one you slept with?

always a mother’s boy.

i should have known better.

i should have painted my toenails green on our wedding night.

empty broken coffin, empty promises.

i sit beside you on the bed while you sleep and snore and still I smile.

out there the thunder roars, 

the raindrops become my tears.

though storms rage beyond these walls,

you’re sleeping soundly.

this is where i am still .

i come from mountains that swallow cries,

from rivers of songs written by death's angel.

our anger: tufan

our pain: brekhna

our tears: baran

attan in the poppy fields,

watch me eat zarathustra one seed at a time,

loudly, slowly, slurping every moment.