The End of Red Roses
About 12 over 9 pm
when time was over
declining
into the horizon, your
tongue inside
my all-in-one wet words
resisting the idea of
birth
and death
not a single soul in view
just the unforgettable
scent
of salt
and roses
playing
their petal-like fingers
over each piece of earth
deducing the lines -
ocher, red lines - carved
on the substance
of our skin
as a velvet dictation
rising between choruses of
your
sex
we drank
the warmness in each
syllable
until the end
was as near and thin as
the brisk desire of
dawn
then
deciding to travel abroad.
©
2016, José Coelho
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