Sans titre

I have painted new suns over your sky with clouds across to lock your eyes in many transparent dawns. Your cigarette has not lighted yet although I have been bringing my breath near it under the pretext of giving you a kiss. You have joined your hands with my fingers, each scar that you have is the food of my fingerprints.

I have painted your face over your face, with the eyes and eyebrows that I love, with the breathing’s sound that makes me breath and your perfect ears’ arch appropriate for to hear my voice; my voice which has been held for six years just for you and that you like it, but I don’t like it, because it cannot sing.

The suns have delineated a new day over us; they burn my lips and languish to my eyes. You have turned red like the sunset, you have fallen red and lighted over me and I do not realize I have been turning in at night plenty of stars of your word’s stress.

I have been painting new moons over the sky’s circles of curfew, for setting your mouth free of satellites and shooting stars. And we have been dancing songs which we cannot sing, and we have sung unknown songs.

Amen for the things that you do not say me. Amen for the things you have written in my back.  I have turned round your past and I have been erasing the things I do not want to you remember of me. I have been recording some poems for you and now I am mentioning you in my homework. When we will be old people, we will to read this and take the clouds away, which are around the moon’s circles. Now I do not have more words, I have dawn and get dark inside ourselves. Do you want to measure the lunar cycles with me?