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.