bo bo of wu han

solitude ©papa osmubal

solitude ©papa osmubal

bo bo of wu han
elbert s.p. lee

How I took you to my room
when the party was over
as cracked voices and bland music
dissipated in sombre space.

How we broke the second silence
and overcame the estrangeness
of heritage, language, and years,
of a dubious transaction,
of impending biological havoc.

Then you lay before me
fully extending your large frame
when your milk-white skin
blended in with the fragrance of a newly laundered sheet.

Reluctantly, we sent our words,
like sentinels forever probing forward,
cautiously preparing for the advent of
a not-to-be-easily-lost brigade of tongues and other kinds of flesh.

For some moments,
we met as humans fully alive
bridging the haunting distance between two wandering souls
lost in their twisted career paths that would only lose to heal.

At the command of break of day we had to part, we knew,
like the Cowherd and the Weaver who meet once
for a day in a thousand years on a path less travelled,
in the deep fathoms of space.


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