I have become even less than a postcard
stamped and dated more than two months ago.
Here, the slight echo of your existence
lives through your ***** swimming in my body
and I think we could have made a baby that
looked beautiful even when her stockings tear.
But she and I are only a hiccup
the wedding waltz you could not complete
a souvenir packed in cardboard: no one will find
I am only known as a second of your life.