By the window

There are termites

beavering in my crevices –

Pains that don’t speak a language,

Wrapped in white lies of laughter

Pealing and peeling.

On a day when clouds gather

under the summer sun

for an tentative downpour,

I keep the window wide open,

A breeze tells me its story,

Of the bruises

it gathered from its many journeys

and silently carries under its skin.

We kiss and let our spittle become

salves to each other’s secret miseries,

It’s hard to say whose wounds

have the taste of blood,

whose the taste of tears.