Motion.

Tenderness, if it were matter, would move in a wave.

It would pretend to be a tsunami, but when you dive into it –

I thoroughly suggest you don’t dive into tsunamis –

you realise, that this is no tsunami.

It is a wave and it shall wash over you and leave you on the shore

A little wet, a little thirsty and very surprised.

Because these moments don’t have a moon.

Waves have a predictable moon.

The tenderness will stay.

Things we know.

The thing is
He knows I have wanted
And even loved other men
And he knows that the rain
Does not always remind me of his skin
He knows that this skin
Has seen, yearned, wanted,
Wasted, burnt itself for other men
And he knows that he too
Is a chapter that may turn
In this book.
There are shapes that he will
Never know that form the shadows under
My eyes that look at him
There are colours that I cannot 
See anymore
And then there is the ink.
The ink of other men on my story
Spilled, scribbled, doodled,
Meticulously written,
Painstakingly erased.
The writers among you will know that erasing ink involves the tearing of the membrane
That is my skin
Under it.
And this man, he walks up to me
With a balm in his palm
(giggle, it rhymes)
And looks at me like no other man has witnessed a miracle before.