Conjugal Bed

My hip doesn’t draw close to yours.
Nor does your rudder seek my sea depths.
Under my eyelids you’re a wet matchstick.
I’m a package of frozen meat on our chest.

That is enough and more than enough.
Let us no longer meet under this roof,
Let us not avoid each other like pedestrians at the street crossing
Since we are neither tenants nor relatives.
The blood type of our souls is different.

This bed is not a grave for us to lie in.
Neither are we Romeo and Juliet
For tears to be shed over our corpses,
And having a wake over the living is intolerable.

I don’t want to prattle and haggle anymore
On the subject of you–love–me–you–don’t–love me
My heart is an illiterate,
I don’t want to teach it how to read
The chessboard of give–and–take.

These breasts are not a lost and found office
For me to keep you and guard you
Till someone doesn’t come and find you,
Unwraps you and assembles you as they wish,
The way I myself once did.

Every real girl knows what she needs,
Someone to bite her lips and not her heart
And set her imagination on fire under her toes.

That’s the kind I want and need.
I sit behind the wheel and press the gas.
Even to you I don’t recommend shifting into reverse.
I can’t think of a better tip.