The truest things can’t be true,
they live apart in a silent world,
incandescent and cruel,
able to mingle with nothing.
Not pure but uncompromised,
their incessant pounding
like the flash of an ember
in the center of the chest.
I own that kind of solitude
that keeps reds from fires
extinct, I own secrets the way
only animals or criminals do.
Language can’t grasp them,
its net of light invariably
returns to the lips, torn —
the truest things can’t be told.
I sit in the garden at sundown,
a perfect flamboyant time,
knowing I can’t say it right,
knowing you won’t believe me
— have you, even once ?
Petals whirl in the air like lies
around our bastard hearts,
stories bleeding from their cracks
to keep us sane and proud.
Two months ago in a café
we smoked red and green
cigarettes, colors of passion
and hope — and my blood
turned to lilac wine. No.
These things can’t be true.
Just the stars vast silence.
You are the note no one can hear
since flesh dissolved into word.
The sigh never perjured.
You are all that I have.

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