fugue

the best poems are like your last fuck
you let them lie there
before entering them again
like closing a door
an open window
to lower one step
to rise again
to stay outside
to take shelter, close my eyes
open my hands
to reconstruct a memory
and take cover in the simplicity
to swear in emptiness
to name solitude
to undress boredom and
dress the shade
grab light and
pacify silence

with you i wanted to
recreate a dream
recover the target
continue to watch to
maintain the fire
redeem our dementia
to accept forgetfulness that
when we fucked
the only word from your mouth
was FUCK
as if it was your pious act
while i HATE
the way death is
the sole heiress of my body
and its seasons
and i HATE you
your awareness of my hands
the way you foresee vertigo
when i am underneath your hips

and i experience nausea
while purifying myself
in your empty eyes and slow burning fuel
and watch you try to write the poem
that reconnects you to the purple
language of a day
to salute each inch of my skin
as if i was the only stranger in your bed

and to rectify, one by one
the number of my bones