The Golden Notebook.

you speak not in words,

you use the language of the blind;

you paint, you touch

you whisper with your fingertips.

and sometimes, you walk 

in and out of our deadened moments,

half-awake, and half in a dreamystupour.

drenched in moribund dreams

that shatter and break on paper.

and burn in the fragrance of candlelight.

you live and die

a million times in my poetry,

like a mythical warrior.

and i tell stories of you

that might just be lies.

you speak not in words,

you use the language of the blind,

and i have saved your poemscars

on my body.