In the house I would breathe my last. 


There would be a window that would have 

Two hands of ceramic instead of a window sill

These hands would cup the sun when it set 

And caress its bleeding and ever shrivelling being 

That didn’t bleed light but a name. 


There would be no class but an opaline that would give way 

Whenever the sun needed to see me, 

And couldn’t do with a translucent silhouette 

That changed shapes faster than the Sun could take names 

Of all my aliases-

That’s why my name is more geography 

Than human. 


In the house I would breathe my last. 


There would be a mausoleum, 

A resting place for all the promises that were the only remains of my lovers.

I’d call the room the cemetery and have it underground so 

That it’d be so cold that even if nostalgia clawed at the back of your neck 

And begged for the antidote that only the DNA of these promises held, 

You couldn’t dig it out.


I will read my eulogy every time I laid to rest another lover, 

Another creature whose life depended on me;

I’d write for their survival in a distant galaxy 

Where the moons owed me a promise that wouldn’t 

Be reduced to bones and would stand testament to time’s 

Mortal nature.


In the house I would breathe my last.


The walls would be covered in every shade Pantone book had to offer 

And I’d see that the ground of my house was the birth ground for butterflies 

And that this was nothing but a cocoon of lies that 

I’d built with my own hands. 


There would be a glass dome on top 

That let the transient clouds leave fleeting imprints 

That reeked of metaphors sprinkled with longing. 

I wish I were like the glass, 

So you could see my flaws

And not have to lose your breath. 


In the house I would breathe my last.


I’d have Greek fire 

That couldn’t be put out with my being 

And when it rained [fire]

I’d look like my lover

- the Sun.