Awake
quivering
by the
caress of an absent
hand you
know too well.
Very
briefly, the sheets feel like
a dry
ice-cold skin
in contrast
with
the heart
muscle’s heat radiation.
Love is not
felt by its beats
but lower
in the guts.
I open a
window to
listen to
the silence.
The absence
of sound
invades the
room till
an
awakening bird
ruffles the
magic as
by a
windblown.
In an
otherwise empty bed,
I mold a
second cushion,
to a body
shape in my lap.
Trying to
revive a dream
as if falling
asleep
will preserve
the illusion.
When left
alone that day
one holds desperately
the feeling,
longing for
nightfall, waiting
for the
dream to continue.
After
another restless
night one
knows,
only the
real experience
will withstand
the time.
