Oh, taboo,

I know you

like a tattoo of jasmine blossoms
along the tips of my fingers,
if I scratch the surface
the fragrance will break free,
and you,

taboo,
yes, you,
who came sneaking into my bedroom
the other night,
as I stared out at the sparkling stars
dropping,
meeting the edge of the sea,
sinking,
one
by
one
beneath the blanket
of the horizon line.

I rested with my purple duvet pulled up to my chin,
counting the stars as they turned
toward the horizon,
and
with each slip,
I made a wish
like I did as a girl,
when I whispered hopes
upon shooting stars
that streaked behind the Ponderosa pines’ silhouettes.
Hopes that became a part of me,
still smoldering
like coals in the beach sand,

yet now I know that hopes may be

new shreds of words written, but not necessary
as letters scrawled sloppily and
unsteady,
I crumble them in their beds of parchment white,
fistfuls for tossing
upon the embers,
which are
like a lodestar sparkling
to guide me
on these nights when I curl up,
watching that slow dance of constellations
swirl into the sea,
and I ask
the taboo,
who walked into my room,
go on,
go follow the stars,
they know the order,
the ever twirling expectations,
solid and steady,
a guide,
like the North star,
that I realign my lode stone toward
after you

pulled me off course.

Oh, taboo,
I know you
like a tattoo of jasmine blossoms
along the tips of my fingers,
if I scratch the surface
the fragrance will break free,
and you,
taboo,
yes, you,
I am not sure
if I will ever be awake enough to let
you in.

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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum

Photo Credit: Dusan Marceta/Pixoto