You won’t be painted in angel’s skin,
in white-long wings that cut through the heavens
nor in succubus clothing,
tight leather made in hell’s ovens.
You won’t be holding a wand in your hand
like witches of old,
won’t be performing spells
to make me fall in love with you and abandon this world.
You will be painted as a human being.
Nothing but bones muscles skin and ordinary clothes;
Two arms, two legs, one head–
No one will see in you the world
that from this world you withheld.
Two eyes, one nose, two lips I always want to kiss
and they will ask from me, “Why her?”
“Why miss her,” “when you can have all of this?”.
And I will smile, as the lost thing I am,
put down my cigarette,
grab my trembling hands and paint you as you are:
A field where Jacarandas bloom
a rock where you lay your head
and mushrooms sprouting from every line of your shape;
No angel, no demon, no witch can hold a candle
to the magic that your presence emanates.