I imagine his book of poetry to be blue—
Cover blue, spine blue, pages, poems, blue
Me, blue him to make blue
That he exists bluely and glued
To the notion of me praying for more poems
To arrive from his side of life to my sad here.
His signature is missing where signs speak
Of the abyss of timely injuries
And our days of youth and more sins.
Sins abandoned us the day he began writing
Blue things where I rested my head
And cried rivers and sang lullabies
Not felicitous enough to accompany him
To his worlds, and I would never be enough,
And he would always be blue—
Blue enough to burn my eyes—
Blue moon, blue child, blue sky and the sea
Accompanying the sky in its glorifying color.
When burnt are eyes, hearts follow.
Breeze does the work. Now no way of returning
To the road that would be paved but his pages
I’ll hold in my hands and make love to.
I love his blue, and he makes me—his blue.
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