A Song for Eliot

Morning winters,

The smell of cigarette on your collar,

I muffle, biting into your skin

As your fingers take a walk

Into the darkness of my hair

The morning groans,

Stretching its arms across the silent city,

Its breath pressing against the dirty windows,

Waking up in its own waking,

To a handful of illicit love-affairs

Promises that crawl against one’s bare back

Scratching against the skin like broken porcelain,

Searching for answers,

Why their lover deserted them?

Like paint peeling off the walls,

Fragmenting from the whole,

Into unknown spaces

Of beautiful misery

They fall…

The streets that linger on,

Swerving, curling, smoking, mulling

Existing, hiding, running, halting,

Speak of sinful nights that walk,

Dressed handsomely under the winter cloak

Emptiness slithers across their wooden floors,

Her black body rubbing against their empty beds

She clicks her tongue mockingly

As she coils around them,

Biting into their skin

And their fingers knead

The darkness of my skin

As I wrap myself around their bodies—

Me, a nameless child of the streets

For their love has deserted them

And I am their emptiness,

To whom they make love

Every night

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