has the temperament of high waves,
the character of raging winds
it can read the bones of the sky
it can be as quiet as unused ovens or
as the light over the hills after the storm

a woman's passion invents new remedies
but no desperate religion of salvation
for the curse of being bodies full of time.
it doesn't accuse you of the insolence of being yourself
no need to use blood metaphors in this poem
cause a woman's passion simply moves the air in your blood
so effortlessly that all you might want is run away and
die again and again

love spoke with an incomprehensible voice in manic days. we were looking for the soul of words, from one rhythm to another, no nuance no desire to escape this passion for dreams on repeat. my name is Carmen, I told him, you came to light me up like the morning that has never seen torches nor sobs. I'll write as long as the words hold me. Contaminated minds in humid bodies, I felt my fluid fingers maddened by je ne sais qua. I couldn't find my emptiness, you couldn't find thoughts any more in the tunnel of yearning, it kept descending into the desire of the earth, it ravished us. I don't want to get out of mind but I would go to the sea of green, was it in the palm of your hand? I'll turn into a cradle for the illusion of eyelids. I didn't have eyelids anymore, just two burnt eyes, the darkness that dug into them, that darkness that blinded you, called you, squeezed you till you turned into ink. I'd like to spell the word desire like a mantra, may it forgive me until it forgets me, until I howl and then fall silent. I shut up as a field. I'm writing about too much aliveness, purple in the pleasure of pain. I keep reaping the grain of wheat, I have no helpers like the hero in the story. pain contaminated the tablecloth. I didn't hide my desires in the orchids, but let them smile. we talked about ourselves as if we didn't know.  we were our new selves, our old selves. it was us all over in the abyss of mind as if it didn't hurt in the morning. I wanted to give myself to you. I am pierced  by words, I can't stop them, they flow from the eardrum of the mind to the marrow of my bones or the other way round. The stories of the lymph, I listened patiently. Maybe today is yesterday and tomorrow is the day after. I've forgotten the alphabet of time. What do words actually know? Love is the mercy of time passing by, leaving us untouched, now I know.

night comes with waves of perfume
the trance of flowers is quiet and only
the winds can touch the secret of trees, still
sleeping under the apple trees gives one deeper dreams
when darkness hunts me I remember
your empty hands against the form of light
how you struggle to find the archaic tune
the chronicles of the invisible unfolding
my mind recycles thought from sprout to seed
the vesper bell plunges the crickets,
the roundness of the heart deeper
into the hour of the dark

you float like an enchanted nebula in my mind,
pass like the clouds inside my veins,
are the easiness of breathing in my dreams
you forget me for millions of seconds in the imaginary time
you are more real than reality itself in your spontaneous combustions
so that I destroy you each day inside my bones,
I ignite the narrative of dawn, the blueness of your ribs
I forget about you like I forget crying in the aliveness of lovers
I need to forget you like one forgets faraway explosions, storms and miracles because I love you with all the songs of the wind,
the wind that spreads the seeds further away from each other the same way the flow of mystery so precise is carring us further and further away towards ourselves

they say it's the limbic system
I say it's the earth of my brain
and you are here to stay

I contemplate the horizon as a broken puzzle
yet aflame the sessions of thought
Eros is singing to the raging gods
the seeds of future mixed with the atoms of the past
the layers of history unreadable
we play games with the invisible
in between thoughts transparent vibrant walls
in between you and you, some fragments
in between myself and I, fault lines and vital figments
the mirror gaze an oxymoron in the beginning
a mistery the spin of fragments
that's all I can say for now since
the soul of language is hidden inside
untraceable rhythms of silence
true passion is shattering the body of time
it brokens the one into many, it fuses the many into one
in the seed we are a cosmic creature breathes
perhaps the void of the sky is dreaming its memories
or a sweet lullaby

silence falls over me from above
the sea songs in my hair wait for an allusion
my hips are shelter for the dance of blue shades
love is this imprecise semiosis even when
you go into specifics about its wavelengths
the splitting time of atoms,
its intensity, radiation and schedule

my steps leave no trace, my hands have no voice in your deja vu
a semiotic thing your imaginary body
there is no point in living only in one dimension
an unknowable god takes snapshots from our deeper minds while
love is just this superimposed image falling from above, turning into the sea

the quest for meaning, the passsage of time, my hunger for you while I keep myself composed, dream days and reparation, tears of intense wonder, never mind the order cause life is a verb. So many different mirrors of the same passion we were handed over in the hallucination of hours, in the mist of nights, in the depths of cups & palms, or of unborn words.

far away seems so close in your eyes
and you push your blood away to
feed the wind or some whispers
unimaginable to the full
my torrid eyes see the sky full of scars
sometimes when
the moon is full of boom
all I feel is you

but I fill in the blanks of thought with black panthers
they watch you closely as days lose their names and time moves in all directions
no ordinary dreams in the present continuous of flesh
but some flashes of certainty:
the colour of my tears suits you well,
distant is the moon from its own doubt