Sangre

Don't tell me I have control over this feeling in my chest.
I'll change my thinking,
Like Siddhartha,
Not wanting you ever again,
Or at least not now,
And never suffering for not
Watching your face,
The parting of your lips,
The breathing through open mouth,
Eyes either asleep or in pain,
Or both,
Half-closed,
Unmooring,
Looking at me,
Hands on my chest,
Crotch on my crotch,
Like basil and oregano,
Cinnamon and nutmeg,
Coriander and thyme.

No, not wanting that,
Cuz I'm not having that.
Instead, I'm just
Writing you a sad and angry poem,
And missing you to sleep.

There,  I did it.
I thought about something else,
And remembered it instead of wanting it.
And I have to admit:
It helped,

But just a little.

It's better when it's on the skin,
When the breath is in the lungs,
The salt on the tongue,
And not in
A poem,
A dream,
Or worse,
A memory.