for Tonya and Mor
In our love our bodies became the place,
but our deepest memories no one dares to face.
What we never did has gone with the night to yield,
and what we never were is now an open field.
Remnants of the harvest, leftovers from what has been,
even a ceremony will not save a thing.
Bugainvilleas in blossom, time has become all space,
eyes of night and darkness remember the day, the days.
Silently they remember house and desert, so vast,
only the ceremony will remain at last.