I still have so much left

 

Everything is part of this eternal, unfillable emptiness. The piece of the puzzle, the fit, the simple chord, the absence of your smile, the contour of your body in the distant profile of the dream, so distant, today, so imperfectly serene, this abandonment of the world, and the science of your humor, your warm breath, the warmth of your presence, the torture of losing you, the difficult, the impossible incidence of your gaze on me,  The coincidence of putting our wills in the same space for a second, the time, the bond, the undone knot, the abandonment, the delight of an endless cuckold pain, for me, here, the silence that only music covers. That only you could fill with love. And ruminate in this bottomless abyss, that not seeing you may be the perfect punishment, the most right-wing way of the universe to say died. Everything died, in you, for me, everything disappeared, instead of adding, marched, left, like the finest crystal, everything is dreamlike, the most satirical I have lived, doors and windows closed, everything crashed around me, waiting for you and a ghastly, rational and empirical plaque, ended, my love, died, my love, just like everything else,  disastrous, detached, forgotten, hidden, lost, died of accidental death, less bad, you survived time and I am shadow, penumbra of the night that is climbing, astonishment, nightmare, and despite the verbalization, I manifest nostalgia, which is arranged like chairs, under the table, which is arranged next to the counter in a vase of flowers, the unpleasantness in the water,  On the board, in the quarry, hidden, guarded, understood, love is lost as one loses one's shoulders in the shirts where there is excess fabric, in the dresses, in the combinations of the days, madmen swept away, the feelings, like curtains in the wind, revealing vulnerable areas, protests, naked, fulfilled only the intentions of seeing you, of hugging you, of feeling you alive, as on other days, in everything the same as this one, with sun, with laughter and even with tears, days that keep hours, that run under the rugs, that crust into the soul and prick like lady's pins,  the protuberances of the swelling in the eyes, the smoothness of the character, the eloquence of the verb to say that I love you, without offending you, the corpse of love extends in disarray, and climbs walls and descends between the kitchen, enters the daily meals, the afternoon teas, the clear nights of the full moon, that I still look at the sky to tell him about you,  To cry for your longing, the strangeness of not being able to love you in the body, in the presence, in the embrace that I long for as the greatest wealth, the treasure that gods brought me inside, to live inside, with me, to accompany me everywhere, like a fate, a fate, to be loved, so many lost loved ones, grandmother Bina,   a dina, a almerinda, a lina, The blue girl, me, the girl who still lives inside, lost in your chest, and that's what I want you to know, that you transport me, that you take me everywhere, without even knowing it, that I'm weaving silk on your chest, weaving the light of the world, of one more wait, of an eternity that catches on the window of your eyes and wets my eyes,  ecstatic in the beauty of what you see around you, of the poet who lives in you, but always, always leaving me with this longing like a wheel, a white handkerchief, an immense sea of shelter for my desire, a meek pet wound, a torpor, a shiver of pain, an ambitious contemplation, a gray day and another that not,  That no, and another that yes, sunflowers smiling like hooks for your eyes, you, the gold of my days, growing in other fingers, in other suns, and I glued to your portraits, I abandon myself to the emerging world, that remaining oneiric and I cultivate the landscape, as if embroidering the courage to let you go, that insists on arriving, that insists, as I insist on dreaming of you,  how love insists on preserving, on remaining, when it needed to leave you, when it needed me all in another place, in another latitude, a sea waiting for me, but you stay and I don't know how to forget you. I learn other things, that the days are beginning to shorten, that there are viruses and bacteria, falls of empires, strips of gaza on fire, wars and beatifications, ministers and decorations, hearings scheduled for another 11th of September, festivals and celebrations and the lady of agony, who came to stay with me, the golden ones on the plate, seasoned and waiting for the potatoes to finish cooking,  to be grilled, but concretely, in the objective vicissitude of the leaf, I only don't know because I stubbornly don't learn to let you go.  And take me to a new longitude of you. I don't want to remind you, but I always have so much left, inside, that you go out, that you push yourself to the pages of my diary, that you suffocate me with memories, that you take me in the hands and make me describe this chronic acute pain of waiting for you in the schism of not understanding the silence that also remains,  that I don't need, that is also expected to break and be produced with that round no that I deserved you. Take, please, the lady of agony, because I know how to keep a smile imagining your joy.