I resist the touch of your skin,
for your heart no longer touches mine.
I resist walking your streets
for my eyes cannot meet yours.
I resist your ideas,
for mine have grown.

The resistance is of my soul
that have seen other souls,
that cannot be mirrored in just one soul,
that cannot be filled by it,
that is fragmented in millions of souls,
millions of pieces, of faces,
of desires, of movements, of thoughts.

Every act is a resistance:
it resists everything except the act.
Like the air,
I expand until walls resist me,
and then I find the cracks and holes,
to meet the open air
where I can expand indefinitely.

I resist you, but I resist more
the idea of you.
Of what you mean to me.
I resist giving myself to you
for it is what my every cell wants,
but I'm afraid I could not
be a whole self again.

What would you do
with this meaningful part of me?