What The Wind May Take Poem by Bien Nathaniel Gerodias

If you must sail,
then go
but carry my weather in your chest.

Take no sips from the chalice at another's throat.
That hollow where pulse hums?
That is my altar.
Your mouth is not free there.
Your lips are consecrated.

Let no eyes meet yours
the way mine do when the night forgets to be shy.
If faces must be turned,
let the gaze fall elsewhere.
Let your hunger greet only shadows.
Seek my storm
in every stranger's stillness.

Do not lace your fingers into new soil.
Those roots grew in me.
Let the wind pass through your limbs
but never settle.

If another climbs onto your steed,
strike the saddle bare.
The back of that beast was carved for me,
thigh-warmed and laughing
a throne not built for the borrowed.

Bathe alone.
Let no one share the hush of water with you.
Let no witness follow
the path of droplets down your skin.
Love like mine clings
like smoke to cloth,
like scent to memory.
No soap can unwrite the story
your body tells of me.

Wear the moon I hung around your neck.
Let it rest on your chest like a secret spell
an orbit,
a chain,
a charm that says:
you belong where the tide calls you home.

And when you erupt
don't cleanse.
Let the earth that once cradled your fire
wipe it clean.
Let that touch know
the ash I left behind
still smolders.

You may go,
but do not bloom too brightly in gardens I did not plant.
Do not laugh too freely in rooms where I cannot echo.
Do not spill joy
as if I did not bottle it for you first.

Let new hands map your skin.
But let your shadow
remain tethered to mine.

And return,
like a moth,
singed
but longing still
for the light that burns only
in me