3
Reading
is an unexplored sixth sense.
I read you everywhere without being able to tell you.
Letters take shape within your shadows, and my language is poor.
I move my mouth over you,
hoping to spill myself,
thinking of your questions.
With every fleeting gesticulation,
the selfish, the cowards, the courageous women,
a little of my learned eloquence in search of survival
within this ignoble and ugly world
in which I find the fairest of beauties.
A flower beside a rubbish bin.
A plastic bag whirling.
Your eyes are rods that pierce my satiety without accommodating themselves to it.
Thank you,
for life is long,
barely longer
than your notes,
woody and uneven.
Thank you,
for life is relief,
and your hollows allow me
to hide inside them
to make
a dangerous reading
from which I emerge more mature and unconquered.
Play with me,
for I play with you.
A wet fabric argues your folds,
you are adorned with a thousand contradictions.
Marry me,
make me an entity.
This contract,
I sign it,
not without blood,
without reading it.
Thank you for speaking to me
in an opaque language
that defies me.
That defies me?
I summon the x before the l.
/
3,5
Writing two three and the other half
You are a membrane
I sway against you
you sustain my life
you sustain my life
you sustain my life and I mate with you forever.
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