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Making love to you is like blundering someplace else, meeting people people people as you do not stoke my nothingness even once, our memories hanging ever so loose and forlorn like broken tiles that line the inglenooks of our sorrows . . . Allow me to teach you an old trick or two: you take me in your arms like eggshells and teach me what lovemaking is all about: I may not be aroused when you are to fall back on our memories and do nothing else . . . That evening was like your full lips in bloom so mindless our holidays spent like prayers in rains and lovemaking . . . You never miss me around your lips licking the froth of evenings alone in winter woods or crying and rising and falling like waves breaking against the endlessness of passions . . . You light up a cigarette as I’m swept ashore and walk holding hands with my envy toward the celestial gates . . . My tongue twitches in fury like the bitch of a winter all around as the sand and the salt and the tears of the ocean rise like litany in unison . . . You run into me across the waterfront where the beach lies cobble-stoned and panting in season . . . Our eyes water as your cigarette smoke is blue against the ocean and sky . . . My envy and I walk in silent camaraderie toward no tomorrows