I’ve been looking for heaven in all the wrong places.
Cavorting with alchemists and bartenders.
Small-talking, pouring lilac wine into an astrolabe.
I stand far enough from the truth
but close enough to start a war,
a cold one. I don’t want to be anything more
than the print on your Missoni
comforter. I don’t want to pick out
wallpaper or china patterns that carve up
the kitchen; separating us like caesuras.
I don’t want to be
than fingers, prints;
whorling at the ridge
where calf breaks into knee.
Originally published at: http://selfiesinink.com/post/67467718065/roberto-santiago-its-not-me-its-you