Skin

I will whisper your name
to the gecko for it will remember
you with exactness
as it utters
its call for fixity of memory.

At twilight, you will find the gecko
in your ceiling, looking at you
with its peculiar eyes.

You will try to move away,
but it will still find you.

With your trembling hands, you mapped
the dots in the gecko's skin,
finding familiar specs
in your greening pores.

* This is the latest poem I wrote in one of my boring classes this semester after a poetic hibernation for four months. I miss writing poems. And again I'm scrambling for poetic language. It's obvious in my latest short story. The language sucks--I admit. I'm groping for the right track to master this craft again, hoping for future recognitions.

This one's for the one who said that I should write. I'm glad that I don't know.