I think I can hear you in my dreams.
I lose you anew every time my eyes open.
I look outside the window and trust it’s your reflection
In my own face.
I look at the face of a young girl
Who awaited death, courted it in her heart,
Until she grew old and her body was gone, out of my hands.
I’d detect your scent amongst masses and pray for your presence.
A body that gave so much cannot lose the life it offered.
When I entangle my hands on my stomach
I see yours too, the protected heartbeat, and then the intimacy
Turns into a longing and a desperation that you’re alone in a cold room.
I would love to cover you with my own body
And not be terrified. Not long ago you sat opposite me.
I will always listen to you saying my name,
The dying mouth and I loved you so much.
“Woman with Black Gloves (Zorka)” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)