χαμαιλέων chamailéōn

I am

the earth.

 

I’m the Lion

who arouses.

 

I am a contrast

to the place I claim.

 

I’m what they call converse,

like a chameleon,

 

Dressed in anti-camouflage.

I am in your zone, exposed

 

to all the offerings of yours,

of which you had not known before

 

you saw me in the crowds — sticking out.

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tattoos

falling in love is

like the tattoo

you want to inject

under your skin.

a narrative which

I will wind

around your

silky forearm hair,

your dimples

and your heated chest.

intersections with T.

When I put polish on my little toe.

Yours was so small you had to paint its flesh.

When I look at my childhood photographs: Strawberry blond, blue-eyed.

They said we had looked similar.

Whenever I touch a scarf.

Particularly, when I wear it too tight.

‘innocent’

in·​no·​cent | \ˈi-nə-sənt

from Latin innocentia,

that denotes no ‘harm‘,

as well from Latin nocere,

‘injuring‘ someone,

or anyone involved.

 

blameless with integrity,

upright and disinterested,

lacking guilt or artifice

like a child,

protected and naive.

 

surely free

from legal wrong,

free from guilt and

free from sin,

with candid lack of knowledge,

 

I declare you are:

ingenuous, artless, ignorant

of the evil you have caused

of the guilt we’re all incapable

to blame you for.

Watershed

It

Might

As well be a

Watershed moment,

Since I like to dive deep,

Always, until I can hardly breathe

Until I can hear my heartbeat: Loud and clear.

The key

Three keys are lying

In the clean and empty

Kitchen cupboard,

Ready to be taken away

By the lady who’s

Checking the flaws,

Our flaws, the ones

We did our best to wash away

Four days in a row,

With acid and with baking soda.

Three keys aligned,

Three keys, not four:

My key had slipped

Through the hole of

My white tweed coat

Some time, long ago.

Maybe I’ll find

That missing one.

Then I would sneak

Through this door

That will lead

To a life

Which won’t be ours anymore.

The photos on the wall

Won’t show you or me or

Anyone we know.

The air won’t smell

Of the cinnamon granola

I made the day before.

You won’t be lying

Asleep on the sofa bed,

Waiting for me

To wake you up.

And still,

I might be keeping that key.

Just because

It once opened and 

Shut our world.

Cape Nostalgia

Her soprano to my strum
Under stars on someone’s patio.
Sea-breezed highway rides
Stapled to his waist.
Honey-infused coffee, twice
At Dolce: 9 am.
Dozing to her heartbeat
Having conquered paradise.
Carpet, fire, popcorn, blankets
As rains rage outside.
All shapes and neon colours
Running the city at night.
Brownies on my backyard-floor,
Just because we could.
Tablecloth like sugar-coating,
Or like smoke.
Giggly, tipsy, and best cheesecake in the world.
Twerking, jumping, sweating,
Hair sticking to hot heads.
Walking home and feeling safe;
And feeling it still.

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