We were in the middle of each other,
with doors looked, curtains sealed,
with full-open wings,
almost hovering in the eye of the wind,
at several thousand feet above the sheets.
A whiff of a desert,
of something hot and wild,
feeling how the unspoken
speaks through the bodies.
I find it difficult to type –
your take-it-or-leave-it style
of pleasing me
leaves a semi-permanent pain
on my left side.
I am still full of you
and continuing this flight,
I guess, alone.
Bizzare, how can one night be
as if extracted from the heart of other planet;
also strange is the regularity,
startling, fixed determination of nature:
how it must continue, must go on,
whatever happens and whatever one feels.
Perhaps, the mistake is thinking that
that curtain-sealed night hides something perfect.
That night I climbed at your very end,
I can now claim
I was once a mountaineer,
I am afraid of heights,
but that height I crave to stay on,
with all the risk on sheer cliffs like you –
and one is done for.
Have I already slipped?
Or am I still hanging inside your clouds,
suspended amongst your rains,
my dear mountain?