I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

his paws,
i took them for granted.
they way he would set them on my foot,
while i sat on the couch
and he was on the floor.
tap, tap, tap.
pet me,
it meant.

stop it,
i said.

no begging, bandit.

i'm sorry.


i took them for granted.
i'd do anything,
for that
tap, tap, tap.

Where does it hurt? They ask.
How badly does it hurt? They ask.
What type of pain is it? They ask.
When does it hurt? They ask.
I’m silent.

Where does it hurt? I repeat.
What do you mean? I answer.
Today? Right now?
In General?
By the quadrant of my body?
Aching pains first?
Throbbing pains second?
How about pins and needles?
Should I prioritize?
I speak.

It’s here, I say.
And here.
And here.
And here.
It’s all the time.
It’s constant.
It’s every moment.
And please, I say,
Please,
Help me.
I beg.

They brush me off.
I’m not dying.
I will not die.
I have to repeat it to myself.
Because it feels an awful lot like death.
But I am chronically ill.
Ill, but not dying.
The doctors don’t listen,
It hurts! I said.
But I’m not dying.
I cry.

Sometimes the best part
of the day is going to bed
How sad
How happy