We lie together in a gifted bed
knowing the alarm is set to sound,
your thigh’s a seat I’m settled on,
mine’s wrapped warmly round your hand.
We burrow in the minutes that remain
before the clock will cut in
to announce
the time
has come

for us

to peel apart.
Shall it be me, or you,
who first will break,
get up from our given place, depart
its dear embrace?

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.