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dolores (what grief does to me)
Last night
we kissed under the Spanish moon
as he whispered love poems to me
in the groping dark.
Mi amor, mi alma gemela,
(my love, my soulmate).
He took me to his hotel room,
where we made love under the ghostly blue of streetlamps
until our bones cracked from the pressure.
Years later,
antideppresants burning out my love for him,
he will sneak into my house
and after a long night of drunken confessions,
I will apologize for my absence,
burying guilt in places
that shouldn’t exist.
He estado esperando por ti, mi querido
(i’ve been waiting for you, my dear).
Now,
his smile curving crookedly into a Spanish tilde,
he slips his fingers through mine
as if we were easy that way.
Unzipping the crater of his mouth,
he pulls me in through his teeth
until our bodies become one.
Nadie te amará como hago
(no one will love you like I do).
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