Unfair is the sentence written
at edge of the road, sitting
as a pariah devoid of embraces
and hands that nourish.
And, yet, how sweet
is the fruit of ill-gotten loneliness,
the colourless silence of pain and rage
when nobody throbs
at the other end of a gaze.
Why always some eyes, some lips,
the desire of other skin, the emptiness
of other hands?
I don't want ripe fruits
dripping its warm flesh
into the cave of this mouth.
I don't.
Just a slight touch, a pale
semblance of love,
of shared joy,
enough to go through life
and then merely leave behind,
if the circumstances calls for it.
It is not much to ask being a bit
of skin, a bit of hands,
a bit of this and that,
going through a tour of hearts and lives
celebrating and touching each other leaving
no more trace than a memory as some film
projection: a sweet itching,
a brief grief for the shared story
and then going back to your own business, to daily routine
and the heartfelt comment, but already far away.
It is not much to ask.
That this feeling of loneliness
be broken in its deepest foundations:
in the love of others, in the intimate
trace of its eagerness and the apathy
stalking into the word that never comes.
