The hem of my body is paper
and my tongue- the silk threads of ice cubes
The night spreads its monotonous tone under my moan
the voices that erupts my chest often,
about your skin:
about your name:
the existence of the Sun inside your wounds,
the mouth opens and a soft touch sits inside
The touch is of your scarlet memories
the sea beneath a mountain.
Nothing remains to be said now.
The body demands a blindfold
a language beyond comprehension
it wishes to float
to tear itself apart
with veins that sing songs of Spring.
And here,
a thing blooms too.
A thing exists too.
And here,
madness is an unleashed song
on my forehead of desire
like eye of sin protruding from all the corners
soaked in a desperation
counting backwards the hiccups spend under the sheet.
