The Mirage

by Christian Ray Licen

email: shakespeareinlove1988@yahoo.com

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For the love of poetry

there’s the rain.

Falling,

as my thoughts drip from the blades of the leaves,

impalpable on the sheets

Falling,

like blizzards by the glass panes

Your perfume breaking against the smell of sewage,

Sewage against the lumps of your sweat

forming cusps in my lips.

Falling

below the muted sun

trickling down

the spine of the trunk

between my cavity and your promise.

falling, rough on your skin,

again—

Fizzling.

falling, damp on the blanket

and again—

until every scratch in your back

reminds me of water.