is the poem’s temptation
wishing to kiss and
F
A
L
L
them;
far away, the jealous moon,
envying the constellation
of your moles.
I, writing them, and, on tiptoe,
turning you into verse;
you, wanting me to confess them:
that these letters are
a rain of ink from the scent
of your flesh colliding with mine;
though I stand above you,
my height bows before your eyes,
and I lift this poem onto tiptoe
to see us there, between shadows,
because your eyes deserve it,
entrusting my gaze to yours
as dark as yours,
and undressing mine
for this second time.
Poetess:
I no longer know if it is you,
your lips once more,
or others, different ones,
or mine repeating
the damned pleasure
of kissing you
with all your name.