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.