Virgin heart.

It cut across my mind, this idea that wouldn’t burge. I took scissors to my head and felt the wind again. Behind my eyes I saw my face, really finding where my cheeks round up.

An empty shore brings waves of joy back to me. The effect of wings flapping miles away. In unison with my soul I asked nicely. For poetry to let me go. This love is a dance that doesn’t end. My legs keep moving around. A dark angel. He has loved me back to life. Like a drink of life giving water. I imagine I could live in Jinja. Look at the Nile for my morning rush. Plath lays unread, I am taking a break from what connected. And I create his essence in my imagination. I like his height and the side profile of his nose. His touch is made of erotica and the rush shoots for my head each time. He caresses my gut with melancholy. The face of a man I do not know. The ghost becomes a head of clouds. Spring is here, to go like the sun. He comes in the winds, an ancient trade for every life of mine.

The flashlight hit my face at exact time. He slipped through my hands like sand. The real thing or man. The version that is not a ghost. I am faking it, the smile and conversation. I do not feel him or it. I am trying but I am drowning in the me I hate. The boxes unfold in the eye of my mind, a tick for every relevant trait. But he falls everytime I hold him. When I concentrate deep enough I fade him out from inside me. I tell him I am leaving and he cries because I once promised other words and worlds.
But my role is played, his eyes are now opened.
For some reason I breathe better after it’s done. I have a date, with the one who boils my blood. It rushes up like a flood of pimples all over my arms. It tickles me while I enter a taxi. I cannot help but see the one I love. Fumbling in my bag I find the means to him. The bridge of words that guides the soul to my passion.

The end.

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