II

If the histories of skin hide
a dark intuition in their beginnings,
if this heart of mine were armored,
the factory of forgetting that works alongside me,
nothing was as strange
as seeing you and knowing you waited for me,
scattered, beautifully, in debt to the wind.

And yet sometimes I remember…
before meeting you I understood
the feeling of being before your eyes,
because you had arrived
before your own self,
out of uncertainty and memory,
summoning in me a gesture,
an ancient disorder,
that privileged vassalage
that desire asks of us over time.

In the year's first timidness,
along with cold promises and mornings
unable to change life,
my dreams and your hair came back with the wind
seeking a way to feel themselves
again on some shoulders, sustained
by a heat alien to their own silence.
It was as if I had learned
that the city does not exist beneath the snow,
that our hands touch and think of creating it,
of discovering antennas
and rooftops,
of inventing the waiting of the trees,
the postal zones where
mist dies, as they say,
the smoke of frightening breasts,
the infinite distance of their names.

And suddenly at times I remember
an injury of light
before its own self,
on the wall suddenly, in our eyes,
summoning in me a gesture,
a future disorder...