In the End
all we want is to be slippery,
smooth,
strained
into silk--
is what I thought,
when I saw
you there
enjoying seasons that had
passed us, seasons
that came out of turn.
I know you
wanted me to judge you, but
there was no jury to decide
your guilt. Anyway,
what could I charge
for the dirty crime
of making me wait,
like words
scrambling for euphony
in an endophasic embryo?
We are never right or wrong.
All we can hope is to be
less than dull, shiny
like well kept cars,
in need of no refinement.
You
and I were not lovers,
but assassins.
The most recent kill
always the hardest,
each time,
less and less
coated
by the shock.

By: Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña
Copied and loved by: Homeless with a Laptop, That is My Name in the end...