Darjeeling 2018

The cold room where
we have put up
in the basement of
this old hotel,

where fires don't
light because
there's not enough
oxygen in the air-

where we breathe on
noxious metaphors
and stories we
told ourselves
as children

where my friend speaks
in the language
of his violin and
sometimes I
see tears between his
performances;

where I mostly strike
the wrong chords on my guitar;

where we make music,
troubadours from the plains;

where it's too cold and
we sleep on
separate beds,
deciding not to hug
because its gay, they say;

breathless and frozen
the nimble moonfull
night awaits- we miss
our wayward lovers,

jerking off to the
silence of the next
door couple. This
was the dream life.