My new amusement is picture you everywhere, by surprise:
I write you little notes during the day,
because I can not talk to you.
I keep them as if someday you would read them,
and realize how much love there is in each one.
I keep them,
but I don’t read them -
I watch them sleeping on the table where I gather them
every night when I come home and withdrawal a new
handful from my portfolio.
I write to you because you hurt me ...
so much -
I write to you to cleanse myself ...
And it is as if the ink was my blood intoxicated by you,
And I feel it dropping out from my hand to the tip of the pen,
but it fails to reach you, it dries, dies with the touch of paper…
I write to you in a desperate attempt
to find something of you on the forearm lines.
Sometimes I feel like the image of you has possessed me,
It speaks to me like an arrow in the middle of the head.
And I find it amusing, how memory has an extended Dejavu,
The more time passes, the more I remember you...
