These unfinished poems are your ankles
and the careful withdrawal of your elbow
when you sit beside me among pillows and headphones
is another verse no one will ever take from me.
I have no urge to gather
22 cigarettes and give no thought to
a bee striking glass
then honey slipping again at the cup's rim
where on the stained sheet the liquid trails,
like when you shielded your breasts with your arms—
that brings us nearer the heart of love!
Our impossible hands and feet
inventing the world, the
lips hair grazing the sexes, fingers curled
like ivy scaling the terraces...
But now it is late
and across the room there is
only the shape your body left
pressed in the sheets—part
of your breathing lingers here,
the scent of your neck,
breasts,
pubis...
and I watch you again across the bed
how you smile like a large, merciless
baby doll of wax locked in her yellow sleep
without memory
without remorse.
# Love without Regrets I have loved you without regrets, the way one loves the morning light— no apology for its brilliance, no sorrow when dusk arrives. I have loved you as the earth loves rain, asking nothing in return, only that it falls when needed, nourishes what grows below. I have loved you without conditions, the way a river loves its banks, shaping them patiently, endlessly, asking only to flow. I have loved you without looking back, like a bird that leaves no footprints in the sky, trusting the wind to carry it forward, knowing the journey matters more than arrival. I have loved you without the weight of expectation, as stars love their darkness— burning quietly in the vastness, asking only to be themselves. And if this love finds no echo, if it returns to me like an unanswered letter, I will not regret the writing. For in loving you this way, I have loved myself into becoming.
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