We’re Only Going Backwards

Not like a Frida Kahlo painting,
full of some deeper color
than we’ve ever felt, crave

insatiably–The motion
we share doesn’t turn out right,
wandering eyes against

redder lips, studying
movement. Before grasping
each  other’s greens again,

let’s remember not even I
know where I’ll go, coping
through kisses from ocean’s lips,

cradling in the sun under
some lost ghost. Familiar sinking
sensation for the right

moon-casted gaze my way,
all shimmer and wonder–
Need to stop falling for it,

start remembering I’m
hung by the heart, already
tied to a smoother thread…


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