One of these days you’ll
not wake up
and all the people you will
have ever loved
will be dead.
Tell me that is not the way towards love.
Rather,
show me that won’t come true
for you.
Show me.
Show me little things matter.
That they’re here.
That you’re here, alive.
Not just waiting for moments
of love to pass,
to pass on,
to be something without you
or to be something with
only you and you alone.
Come touch my sensual body and
my passionate soul
here in the morning,
the 6,540th morning you have left
on this earth.
For if you touch it
once every 12 days
that means you have
545 mornings left to touch me.
If you touch it,
death holds off on its road to the stars
for one less moment.
Make me some kind of sentient lover.
Am I a seraphim again?
Let me be made as a woman.
Find me a woman.
Bring her tongue to my nipples.
novamartinpoetry.com 