The words I speak to you hit the surface of your body
And fall off the edges, the soft sandstorms of skin.
You are inconsolable, your arms elevated, envisioning my face.
You need to pull me into your depths, you never understood that I
I can empathise without touch, without absorbing you wholly.
You shoved me aside, never grasping that I need to endure myself as well.
Your lips on my cheek feel alien, I’m not used to kisses you have
Never distributed before, it is a language unknown to me.
Is it the indisposition? You drag me away, stare at me, trying to reawaken
What I’ve silenced and cured. Trying to make a child out of me again,
A circus artist, a bending entity, with a voice crushed by dough skin waterfalls.
I won’t lie exposed on the surface, ready to be galloped over by an indigestible heartache.
“Portrait of a young Jewish woman” by Maurycy Gottlieb (1856-1879)
