by m.p. macariola
You mused
with Juan Luna
the night you took part
in the carnage of spoliarium
down my back
the warmth of lips
and fingers brushing
every inch,
exposing lust, sorrow and love.
defining envy and greed
for every drop of sweat.
our eyes lock
and i see my soul in yours,
our minds wander
the fields of Van Gogh.
somewhere in it
a petal falls from a sunflower
and we cannot stitch it back,
we were like mirrors without a speck
of guilt,
wathcing the arms
of Venus De Milo
slowly burn away
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