Our words have died
of so much swearing,
to embrace them without obfuscation,
to warm them on our lips
and let them faint with cold,
we made them fly
in a coppery sky.
We ran out of
the expressions,
left puddles of silences,
orphan glances
of answers,
we remained in the station
of goodbye
without a return ticket.
Our tears dried up,
the strains of desire,
the seductive games
of our hands,
the walks for
our sighs
and the nights full
of deliveries that tousled
the moon.
Today, in my many years I think
of that tragic death
of words,
even the mourning shelters me
and the night
with slow agony, buries me
in its shifting sand.
