G Spot

Dance to death

By Virginia J. Pasalo

 

 

EVERYDAY, I watch you
come out of a dream
that seems to me, a nightmare
you crawl like a tired turtle
to the water, in the bathroom
to wash your face
and brush your teeth
and your body begs
to be washed too
but your feet drags
like a tired citizen
to the kitchen
where you pick a toast
and a cup of coffee
that used to be brewed
but now, from a sachet.

the heat scorches
and you take comfort
in the air-conditioning
that conditions your mind
to believe, in the unreality
of reality
and try to hold on to the memory
of what was once, your reality.

each day unfolds, with a line
on your forehead
a wrinkle on your lips
unable to say kind words
to others, and to yourself.
and lately, not a word.

others had moved on
bathing in the warmth of the sun
after being shot on the run
and I wonder if you will be happy
with tea, from “leaves of three”?

more and more, each day,
I find myself begging,
to be washed with your smile
the way your body begs
for the soothing caress
of sea water.

I am tempted to go to the sea
to bathe in the colors of the water
and feel the kisses of the sun
or I can hold on, to you,
losing grip, staring
at the muzzle of a gun.