To feel That my life Is spent on circles And Escher patterns? If love is a parasite, what will it be? Is it the fungi On my body, Milk-white thriving In the darkest corners Where the seat of love is. Or is it like a moth Whose susurrus sounds
So sad and so fragile, Loving the flame
With no shame?
I want to thrive
In the memory Of your kiss. I want to dream of you But must I be contented With dark light and no air?