It’s the shadow of her lips
that begins to vanish
when she moves away from the sun;
like a frozen heart of snow
wishing to become kiss
desert of storm.
It’s the very distance
that separates warmth from cold,
where only you remain:
desertic;
and her: Antarctic.
Lips of a language
slowly unknowing themselves,
burn from afar
and crack with closeness;
Today,
blue precipice of vertigo.
However they are no longer one
but two eclipses
that once desired (one another).
that begins to vanish
when she moves away from the sun;
like a frozen heart of snow
wishing to become kiss
desert of storm.
It’s the very distance
that separates warmth from cold,
where only you remain:
desertic;
and her: Antarctic.
Lips of a language
slowly unknowing themselves,
burn from afar
and crack with closeness;
Today,
blue precipice of vertigo.
However they are no longer one
but two eclipses
that once desired (one another).
What more do you demand of me, love?
If we’re already thirteen months
of letters apart,
if I have already auctioned
the movement
and the meaning of the moon
from all my love letters, love.
Today, your kisses too
are up for auction:
look at them, there,
being public,
everyone seeing
and reading them,
those never-lips, ours,
exploring their dynamism
in verses of no one.
What more do you demand of me, love,
if you took away my cowardice
that ruined me,
mutating me into what I am today?
Distant, our ending
writing itself in non-eternities,
with kisses that want to steal from us,
that already know
—they know—
they will not be.
And they confess.
And they are crashed
against distinct yours.
And they are destroyed,
today, from you and from me.
Me knowing it,
I know, I already know,
that Never you will be.
If we’re already thirteen months
of letters apart,
if I have already auctioned
the movement
and the meaning of the moon
from all my love letters, love.
Today, your kisses too
are up for auction:
look at them, there,
being public,
everyone seeing
and reading them,
those never-lips, ours,
exploring their dynamism
in verses of no one.
What more do you demand of me, love,
if you took away my cowardice
that ruined me,
mutating me into what I am today?
Distant, our ending
writing itself in non-eternities,
with kisses that want to steal from us,
that already know
—they know—
they will not be.
And they confess.
And they are crashed
against distinct yours.
And they are destroyed,
today, from you and from me.
Me knowing it,
I know, I already know,
that Never you will be.
You say love
as if it could be said,
and you write it, you,
you write it,
you and your cruelty:
both precipitating a flower
over the infinite,
spelling its immortality
during its fall, eternal,
but not its life,
in which you aren't either.
You say words,
and I die there,
like them,
like your roses,
like the flowers,
and here I stop beating,
and you ignore it
and you don't write it;
and you lie to yourself.
Me going you, you going me,
and you know this,
because you, too, are dying:
your yesterday,
today center of the poem.
And that's why
you always return
and that's why
you always throw me
with cruelly against you.
And you write
to me again,
to me,
center of the poem:
never soulmate,
soul no one
admits to not having;
me and you.
as if it could be said,
and you write it, you,
you write it,
you and your cruelty:
both precipitating a flower
over the infinite,
spelling its immortality
during its fall, eternal,
but not its life,
in which you aren't either.
You say words,
and I die there,
like them,
like your roses,
like the flowers,
and here I stop beating,
and you ignore it
and you don't write it;
and you lie to yourself.
Me going you, you going me,
and you know this,
because you, too, are dying:
your yesterday,
today center of the poem.
And that's why
you always return
and that's why
you always throw me
with cruelly against you.
And you write
to me again,
to me,
center of the poem:
never soulmate,
soul no one
admits to not having;
me and you.