I used to love his dark T-shirts
such that
words in my language turned into hieroglyphs
nor, cer, dor
there were some dreams about
myself as a she creature
who didn't know the difference
between body and soul
endings and beginnings
his blood was unstoppable
foretelling my future
oblivious of all the serious things
like deserted crossroads, eager pensions or
sand storms on Mars

he promised my death to me
like a haiku:
more core less sore
happy woman
poppies in the wind