Paraphrasing Silence

The moment I first detected her in a crowd

She was not even there

In a turmoil of low-hanging fruits.

She had not yet shown her cards.



If I plucked her from the moving flesh, would I commit a crime?

Would her face turn grey and


Did I not have the right?

Her body had no language.

And I never learned how to read.

What only I could see.

I comprehend it as a an unuttered “yes”.

I am a thwarted norm.

Were she to look back at me

Would she merely see herself?

Are we already complicit in

Actions incomplete?

Have I lost her and did not even speak

Make a sound?

Eroticism tries too hard to be subtle.

It all bursts, the air will escape, life.

That’s how our stories go.

Mine and yours?

A lot of things have already happened before we truly meet.

Can she take it?

What I do again and again and again?


“Magdalena” by Julio Romero de Torres (1874-1930)


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