True: darkness never comes before there has been day;
nor is there any sense in seeking light where there can be none.
But in a place where day will never come,
and where there can be no light,
I only carve a vague sense of being.
Out of breath, but at peace;
of needing you, yet needing me.
A feeling, without understanding,
I go on, and you go on with,
in a place I can’t draw into existence for you,
so you could ever find your way to me.
I lied;
and I did it from the very first line:
here the shadows don’t come or go.
You neither calm my pain, nor are you here,
nor will you know how to find me!
But dawn does come to your days,
and you wait for me, alone,
something you will no doubt regret.
Never having arrived,
you resign to finding us in a place
where you are,
but that I will not be able to reach.
I close my eyes to draw you onto the dark,
and so conjure a place that, without ever going beyond,
will make your feelings into something I can guess,
though wrong, arousing unease in you without meaning any harm.
Then you demand answers, now,
and for them I descend straight into hell.
When I come back,
I burn my whole reality down,
and among the flames, for the first time,
I can see you; touch you;
feel the burning warmth of your body,
and thus I can cross through your reality, imagined until now.
To coexist:
a strange, untrue sense I was forced to renounce.
I’m sorry I had to burn your world,
so as to show that I, not you,
understand better what infinity is
and what it is not to exist.