'I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro' by Moniza Alvi

I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.

Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre

I'd survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder - would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,

Centrally poised, and push my curves
against it's edge, to get myself
a little extra attention?

But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.

The fact that I'm not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever -

Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance, a fantastic construction,

A child's adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away.

Touch me there - Emily Barren

Touch me.

Touch me in the space between

each rib cage, where I believe

my soul resides,

I’d like to know that you can feel her.

Touch me on the nape of my neck,

where I carry the weight of the world,

and let me know if you might

be willing to share some of this heaviness.

Touch me in the invisible places

that I hold my hurt

my secrets

my stories

and remind me to pay attention

to them—the last thing they need is neglect.

Touch me in the moonlight

where I often hide,

but long to know that someone still sees me.

Touch me in the sunlight,

where hiding is not an option

and all my imperfections are illuminated,

and show me you don’t mind

them one bit.

Touch me in the place that moves me,

which will in turn move you,

so we can move together

in a way that only two people

who have touched each other can.

Touch me with your words

or with your heart

or with your fingertips,

touch me there

or here

or even right over here,

I’m really not too picky.

I’d just like for you to touch me,

and gently remind me

that I am real.

The Saddest Poem - Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars, 
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms. 
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her. 
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her. 
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her. 
The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away. 
My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees. 
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. 
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once 
belonged to my kisses. 
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. 
Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, 
my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me, 
and this may be the last poem I write for her.