such a simple form
your fingers take
on this face of mine.

a sweet aroma,
thin
on my lips.

and their form,
of such brevity on the flesh,
on the scars still fresh.

lion
who speaks to you
through a gaze, vast and faint.

his eyes breathe
with a tiresome pain,
almost turned silence.

and tears of olive
sprout tenderly out of him

warm on the lips,
chants on his cheek.

a name

made out of tears.

it slowly disentangles,
from the tiger
and his immense pacing.

a name drowned
in your paused and humid breathing.

a name
that is mine

for it sprouts
from a weeping face.

when seeing you again,
my love,
from you I will rip
a hundred kisses,

hang them up
    around my neck
and thus carry you
        through death.

thus always bear
    your perfect scent.