Room with April Rain by Oscar de Zuniga

Once I was the punctual lover, the tenant

of your room,

Whose walls are yellowed by other men’s

sulphurous dreams.

I was desire, the essential need to your

dancer’s body

Which took passion as wine pressed from

summer fruits.

But now you are no longer what you were,

the beloved,

Who traded hours of sleep for moments of

harried love.

And yet I could not let you go, not while

the heart

Still remembers the room fragrant with late

April rain.

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