For Maidaa You are not love, Nor has love ever been you. Your tresses follow behind you, Resembling seaweed, Grating the damp sand, With the lost names you never claimed. I am considered An ancient sundial, I have lost time with you. Your laughter is the rusted plate I press my hands against, You have not changed. All I had wanted was to keep you, Like a dark octopus, I trusted that I would be safe, From your eight deaths, But you surprised me. You showed me my heart. Split open like twin halves of an apricot, My flesh taut and angry, Bleeding with the hot juices of shock. I caught your love for a moment, Just as I was getting away from myself, You offered me a last chance at life, And I have managed well. Most of the time I am contented, But ever so often, The wounded halves of my heart, Stir angrily like silver fish, Rising, to land.
