3 (The Dark Past)

We both know why I
flinch as you press

a hand against my chest
and it isn't culture shock.

I'm left with
your attitude:

forehead tilted toward
the places where

the stars should be;
the whole of your serious profile

translated by the moon, reads
like an excess of strategy

and there, you say, I go again
and so I almost went,

slipping into the dark past
for the sake of comparison.

When I leave I leave
a lot to be desired.