I am not mistaken. Your thought,
painfully broken, manifests itself
as a reprimand,
but too harsh to feel warmth.

A word, begun in a surge of helplessness,
becomes a spell - it depends
on which path my body chooses.

I am unable to live until kisses
stand at attention, until understatement
directs tenderness.

No, I have discovered once again
how many paths
it takes to lose death.
I do not hear the creaking
of your hands on the verge of innocence.

I do not feel your lips
sinking into a lie - too sterile for me
to give it a beginning.
I still argue with the signposts,
I do not believe in the transference
of light into darkness.

By accident I gave my life away -
fear appeared, an illusion so multi-angular
that I surrender to this role,
although I am a miserable hypocrite.

I will remove the last of sadness
from my lips for you.
For you I will saturate closeness,
I will please perdition.