print advertisements glued
to poles and light fixtures,
craving for attention;
nobody looks at the sun,
but only find their way
by winding around
elongated shadows.
we converse best in the dark:
our handwriting legible without sight.
veins pulsate, nerves euphoric
with every brushing confluence;
plucking bruises that
surface like lilac blossoms
on the terra firma of skin.
cold filament passes the incumbency
of illumination to the bona fide sun.
we bear each other’s signature
into the day, together
with the last memory of
doors closing
with us on opposite sides.