What is Said
My hands, two balls of hair
trapped in the throat of a feline ghost.
My fingers, covered
by your two-week beard.
I want to be a Polaroid snapshot
of a sunset. I’ll call it: selfie # 569
while I die.
You told me your girlfriend got jealous.
She does not know that friends
can love each other
or that we tattooed death on our arms,
and we gave each other stones,
and the river took our useless haiku;
that is, the filth of the city
devoured by Godzilla.
I told you, I would paint my nails red
to hide the blood I carry on my hands
when I touch something and it breaks,
when I miss you. When I cry inside and rot.
Read more of Sergio Ortiz’s poetry.
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Photo by …ven y siente el RUIDO !/Flickr