Shreya, I am turning thirty-two.
I have to see it to believe it.
Thirty-two is sixty-two,
but for several minutes of each day
I am twenty-six.

Let us open the Book of Numbers.

First, it is late Summer
and you are glistening in candlelight.
You are dissolving into me;
I hold your shaking thighs
and take you in.

Second, there are no seasons
and time is measured by the body-count.
I am lying for a living.
The frogs won't let me sleep at night.
I am an addict.

Third, it is early Spring
and Anna wears her sister's coat.
She says 'Shall we fuck again?'
I mistake our appetite for love.
You have never seen such appetite.

Fourth, there is no air
and the morning prayer is prayed too loud.
I am dying in Jakarta
And Anna asks
'Shall we fuck again?'

Fifth, there are no seasons
and the rebels have become my truest friends.
The prostitutes and UN girls
say time is not a healer.
I think of you.

Sixth, the sun is setting on the Strand
and time is measured by the daily news.
I don't give a fuck, no more.
No more, please,
Fuck no more.
 
Last, it is late summer
and Marianne sends pictures of her child.
You are the terror of my drunken dreams;
Your nipples point to heaven
but hell is burning in your virgin skin.

Shreya, I am turning sixty-two.
You have to feel it to believe it.
I curse myself for seeing you
for the several minutes of each day
when I am twenty-six.

Let us burn the Book of Numbers.