Does it make sense
To own one’s desires
And hold you in
My arms, closed and
Warm like a phosphene
Memorised, drunk and dead
Looking in your eyes,
Trying to make sense
Of the patterns of
Life with what you
Have to judge and classify
Sensual emotions, letting
Go the anarchic impulses
And try to make sense
Of one’s own desires
Holding my arms in
Closed, memorised emotions
In encrypted phosphenes