faulty one,
I have met fear in many different corridors
or maybe she has been the one ardently searching for me
and this, like love, is one of those things
only the dead are permitted to speak of.
the dead, they always know better.
last night in my room I came across a cold skeleton,
an eerie figure made of
my arms hanging lifelessly around your neck,
severed arms, like those of a mannequin -
head, torso, legs taken away,
nothing left but the sunk obstinacy
of not letting go.
here, right here on these lips
that try to crush distance,
an unwanted augury has been playing all the time
and I know it has to do with
an image we’re both disheartened by -
two ghosts sitting at the same dreary table,
silenced and stiff, pouring wine.
I lean my head on your shoulder,
wishing of not knowing.
the spectre of two mingled longings
creeps between your sleep and mine,
unnerved and deformed
by the certainty of loss.
