The night was a disobeyed memory,
and an animal of exquisite loss.
The day concealed burned love,
the ravaged architecture of my chest.
In the day I could imagine a
a breeze of human statues,
and words that connected me
to my own feet.
But the night was a disobeyed flute,
and I wanted to lie with it,
and it held me in a dark music,
and poured me into an infinite sadness,
a memory of exquisite loss.