Naked, you are a perfected flame of truth.
And there is a storm of dark ink in the bowl of your being
that leaves me alone, that disrobes my intent.
Naked, you are a broken flame of longing.
And every part of me is a cloud divided in the roots,
and our bodies are entangled in a hedge of ribs,
are like a squall braiding and un-braiding the hills,
while our savage ink surpasses us.
And we return to our solitary heels, with a skin of memories,
with a still impenetrable need, with a still deeper loss.