How did she taste, when I was writing poems for you?
Was her bed warm, did you sing to her, too, while I waited
in silence for you? Did you look behind or ahead or only
in her eyes? Was the press of her flesh all you needed
to feel alive? Were my words tossed aside like last weeks
trash, while you cherished her body, and I walked alone
outside? Did you wonder what it meant as you sighed in
release, the waves of torment you set on the seas? Or do
you owe nothing to no one and your body is free? Do you
realize that your body will never claim me?
Talking to the Clouds 