Presence
the skin that desires
I'll stop counting the hours.
I'll get rid of my thoughts
to baste them with meaning.
I'll scream alone, defeated of measure,
with the desperate desire
of a shelter without screaming, tired
of so much light and life.
I have a feverish dream, insane.
You did not come. You were. Alone,
away, you looked at me in silence
when I approached to kiss you.
You and I, two trees of looks
infinite. I just know myself
as a slug of black earth
dragging myself full of night
by your inexorable corners.
It is the illusion of tenderness
that pursues me by the edges, it is
the fragile and absolute emptiness
of the lost time, the hours made of
autumn, the rain that falls
persistently and makes
the skin that desires wet, which dies
now when it remembers you.
Josep Vilà i Teixidó