by Hugo Ramos and Blaga Todorova

He is made out of
slippery musings,
illusory mistrals
promising late nights
and triumph with the colors
of sandcastles in his eyes.

Her pouty lips would look good
with ice-cream melting off of it;
perhaps sprinkles here,
pecan flakes there—anything
to see vanilla swirling
on her tongue.

His amber skin shimmers
under the drops of pyre,
stillness inhaled in the distance.
Only a breeze away,
to shrink the horizon,
to hold his hands.

Through the wrinkled corner of my eye
I see her gaze flicker
quietly on and off my skin.

Out of the tempests in my heart
I sense his silent vigor,
passion in the whispers coming.

I imagine how small the sun must be
reflecting off her eyes, how
my lips must feel
skimming the contours of her smooth
marbled back.

A fantasy, a harmony where
he is almost close enough to touch,
every part of his body almost loved, caressed.
One of his finest smiles and I hear
the slap of heat against my confidence.

The hope of holding her
in a pasty blue night, the hope
of feeling her dark swirly hair
break apart
in the palms of my hands,

is a promise full of purpose
to have her body pressed deeply
into mine.

When the sky hums under silver light,
I’ll let him draw my lips with nausea.
With unseeing eyes in the darkness
almost breathing, I dream to reach
the fragrance of togetherness,

in between feverish vows
and insanity I’ll let him
keep me alive…

… just enough to keep her
as my late night slippery musing
that I handle in the dark.

* * * * *

Visit Hugo at or follow him and his poetry on Facebook – Hugopoems.

Thank you Hugo for writing this together!

For some reason WordPress wouldn’t let me upload the video directly into the post, so if you can’t see it on the YouTube video  in the beginning, have a look  HERE- MUSINGS .

* * * * *

Image by huneliza on Photobucket


© 2011  Broken Sparkles


Cigar smoke


Cigar smoke

by Hugo Ramos

Her absence once
closed up flowers & upset
my afternoons.

To compliment the madness
that throbbed across the surface
of my temples, I’d weep;

a shoeful of tears over her.

The moon, in its full mustache
and baritone voice,
consoled me
by pouring light into the holes
of my drooping soul.

The prominent space
she once occupied…has wrinkled,
and I’ve awakened
without any of her imprints

pressed inside of me anymore.

Tonight, I blow cigar smoke
at the moon
to celebrate the glory
I found inside this solitude.


“Burning cigar” by paradigmnix on DeviantArt