Something Else

if I could choose to become something else,

I’d become a cloth,

Plain white with rough edges

The edges that will tear apart skin

A skin that would be half red and half blue

Waiting for your touch

If I could choose to become something else,

I’d become a musician,

A musician whose entire tune is your voice

Who sways on your name

If I could choose to become something else,

I’d become the painter

Who has an art gallery of your portraits

A painter whose fingers are decaying slowly,

Day by day, in the struggle to paint a world for you

If I could choose to become something else,

I’d become a chair where you come and sit

After good sex

A place for you to think about me

If I could choose to become something else,

I’d become a poet

A poet whose eyes are swollen

Whose dark circles speak about you

Whose poems stink of the rotten tales

And the smell of green tea that you liked the most

If I could choose to become something else,

I’d become all of these and nothing at all