There are somber days
all twisted
like magnetic tapes,
mornings he barely recalls
his face and name.
There are violet dawns
bruising like promises
no one could ever keep.
Nights, he spends in bars, trying
to save his frozen soul,
and during these nights,
your bed is no longer a bed,
his lips no longer a kiss.
There are moments
when music leaves his bones,
when words hurt like stones,
and he, unattainable,
acts as if his heart
has never been found.
Don’t sink.
Let these hours come.
Let the light go into its sack.
He needs you.
That unpossessive bird
he wants you to be,
that sweet insolence
who knows no cage.
That wing ache.
Let it flutter
under his hand.
The sigh you make
as you come
is the same you make
as you go.