I baptised her face with wallpaper to quench her sorrow.

And I didn’t know whether her silence was worse than her

Wailing voice, the stammering sounds, the endlessness of her

Agony and loneliness that she drowned my bones in.

 

I imagined her tongue, her strongest muscle attached to

The devastated heart, that beats elsewhere, in her head,

The marshlands of epileptic moths. I looked at the crumbled

Yellow fingertips that I could still smell, a cascade of non-existent love.

 

From her embrace I try to evanesce into the rectum of the darkest of

Rooms. I pick my own head up from the chopping block and that’s

How she must have felt. Caressing my hair, touching my skin.

Withholding me within her, letting me go, the bloodbath, the muscle memory.

 

The organs that create, the lives that decay, I try to put more

Weight into my steps and burn all the money in the world.

I stare at centuries of faces in the mirror giving birth to my own.

And I feel drawn towards her beyond the gilded frame.

Hayez_Meditazione_Italia_1848

La Meditazione” by Francesco Hayez (1791-1882)

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