My Other Poem

It was me. 
Real not surrogate, 
behind the words. 

A way of lips, without 
you, with few things to disengage 
upon, what the agony demands. 

On skin, a lump 
was rising― straight 
from the animal instinct, 
discussing the religion of predators. 

A manhood was 
in peril, unregarded by 
otherness. You want to collect the scars now. 

Because you belong to me 
like a moon to earth. 
We both were moving in different 
orbits, trying to touch each 
other, undying, for sun. 

It breaks the heart, when 
it is moonless night.