this cold air

I wrote to you all night

darkness is getting ready

to separate itself from the light

strawberries. tongue on fire.

a foreign language: myself, I.

 

the sky is turning. I can hear the clouds.

I can hear Nothingness

in its shape of life.

its traces all over the windowpane

 

what did you leave for us, God?

the dust.

our parents' bones. their faces in oval frames

the letter openers.

false hopes

the narrow streets of Constantinople

this sudden desire to dance.

 

oh, what curse some words bear

 

what power

to replace love

 

our hearts

sponges soaked in blood.

 

a wound in the corners of my mouth, your absence

I will not apply ointment

nor cry.

 

this cold air caresses my hands like a holy shroud