Ink

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.

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