I knew I was wrong
- undeniably
that to me is not the place under your (yours') sun
that to me solo, dawns not before dusk
and that mornings belong more to others' plural

But, still, it also is called fate, because
there had not been your reading of my poems
as a print of (my) finger
and that one - as if I bathed myself (with it)
had not been both, them and you
neither I would be
a silence in the noise
a light in the darkness
nor would this poem
be composing itself
from your absence

From the abyss!

in which I sink soon as a fullness betrays me
soon as gets in the way before me
a point in space

You did not stand on it, not in words
so that I, by myself, transform it into a line
in a meta-sonic link in syntagm
out of which start the underground streams
whose is to combine the incompatible

Neither I myself paused on that invisible circle, since
whenever you sounded not yourself
I felt that silence as a huge chasm
awfully roaring

Vibrate even when you are not about
your vocal cords in my ear
music without tone or instrument
between us spreads the emptiness
upon which bed
in waterfalls
a hot carmine of my caresses
my loneliness - in full bloom

Mature its pains in all fullness

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