She woke up, her clothes drenched in sweat. She caressed her humid hair, it was all still there. She then rolled her hand on the side of her bed, on which she found none.
I chase you memory every night, my love
this bottle helping me recalling
the way your lips curve nearby my skin,
the way your voice tickle my lobes,
the way your chest inflate under my hand.
And when the moon chases me,
– under the spotlight
I raise up my sight,
and her, from that distance
she can reflect it too
the love I would, every night
give to you.
She felt like an hitch on the top of her forehead – she took away her eyes from what she was doing to find out he had her eyes on her despite the two people separating them – she felt embarrassed as the little construction she was making with coasters signaled her evident boredom to the night.
Lying on the hollow of your neck
leading the way to the scar
running through your back, it ends
at my fingertip coming
at the night, brittle night
broken with the promises
you don’t dare to make
you forgot you told.