I wish my sight was adjusted to the dark,
to this universe as black as ink
so at home in being deathlike.
This excess of night
bruises for too long,
and no one can bear it :
it’s too unviolable for us.
We can only dream it was a body,
to strap it to a table with metal bands,
blind it with its own stars
and listen to its heart and lungs.
It’s all we can do, dream,
while listening, helpless,
to all things disappearing.
Whenever we touch
smile or bleed,
whenever we laugh,
spilling all over beds and floors
the envied heat of our hearts,
this obscure body, this wound,
wants us.
Its pulse is like a voice
isolated in the night,
we keep it on tape and listen to it
as if it had existed before life.
It sings of an intimacy
we lived in long ago
the one I lived in,
the one you lived in,
the one we all lust after.
I don’t know if that melody
should please us,
it rings over, never-achieved,
and leaves an aftertaste of solitude
even God did not expect.

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