While measuring the blueness of the sky,
the figs went stale.
You open your hands to grasp the last fresh ones—
like a prayer,
or a leaf in its senescence.

The heart constricts itself into a void,
like the death of a love
that arrives too late at your door.

Your forgetfulness has misplaced all your memories
somewhere in the house,
and, somewhere you end up—
without trying, but never in exile.