by Edwin Torres

Scattered brainscape while the fan
blows her evening slop over us - over all
the wonder we've yet to grow.

Sleeptime means no sleep for us, wayward
friends that melt in heat time - trying to carve
a life of freedom, scaling walls inside our brains.

We're O so trying, in this world - to place
each others' handsome hands, on what the world
will let us hold - a slice of life
unbroken in still time...we sleep every day
as if it were night.

Her painting studio - my writing
one - both are the same...this
        Our gift is beauty,
each others' life - unwrapped at every
late-show, sharing bad movies
and moonlight.

It is a time of our renewal, as constant
as our unspoken hold on each other's night.
We are in this together - attempting
to stay up, later than ever.

Edwin Torres Author Page

Pub. May 2000