Portrait of you

My lover died

yesterday. I had

time with him

alone, before the

nurses, doctors,

and other well

meaning people

came.

I caressed his

hair and combed

it one last time.

A few strands

fell off in the

comb and I

kept those.

I wore a faint

touch of lipstick

and kissed his

lips one last

time. I placed

a kiss on this

canvas. As

many as the

memory of

our loving

could hold.

I ran my finger

under his armpits,

I smelled it and

it was too clean

but it had his

scent on it and

I placed it on

this canvas.

I kissed and

held his cock

in my mouth

one last time.

I know he has

AIDS and I

do not, but for

the memory

of all of our

loving, the

laughter, joy

and for the

years we

would never

have.

I then kissed

this canvas

again, the saliva,

perhaps filled

with AIDS …

or

was the disease

at last

redeemed with love?

Was the disease

blessed with our

final loving?

From those arms

once so strong

who held me

I drew tubes of

blood, as much

as his still veins

would offer.

On this canvas

I have written

this poem with

his blood and

as I write it,

the tears run

down my cheeks

without fear

or shame.

His blood dried

quickly and

I couldn’t finish

and drew blood

from my veins.

This canvas

torn from our

soul, a fragment

of our journey

interrupted, but

a memory of

love

complete