Do not love me.
My hands are a summer graveyard of mosquitoes
T. Augustinčić

It’s easy to love someone when you don’t know how he
spends the last five minutes before going to bed,
when you firmly believe he lies down angelically,
an innocent sleep quenching all his urges.
One has to be always drunk, however, with blends
of laughter and indignation, of longing and disgust,
of sex and wounding. In October evenings my hands
are graveyards to mosquitoes, the very living palms
with which I, as a crocus does spring, cup your face
and all your softnesses and firmnesses
as a mouth enfolds members.
Now tell me, how can you love me
when I caress you with graveyards,
when I lead you through love across two fields of execution
hiding this from you?
I sense that you’re a master of merging,
that’s why I love you with bloody hands.