It may be impossible
her figure. Some piece
of nostalgia. Sadness
dialogues with the invisible.
It could be admissible
the brevity with which she loves
the space she claims,
in a limited world.
A woman is lost
in the bottom of my bed.
I see a light that wavers,
the colors pale.
Why do hers contours grow
attacking my eyes pupil?
A restless sheet
returns her figure to me.
The light has remained dark
fulfilling its promise.
A woman... is lost
below my waist.