Through the skin of an ink
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I effuse into the voice of your breath, not only in words, not only in sighs. I dissolve upon your pores like an ink, (a milk gone blue) melting out of a broken stylograph, like a livid stain, like a clumsy sentence.
I turn towards a butterfly, jumping along her flight and you think that She drags me away from you; me, drying in shame upon your remark I am losing my blueness, I succeed not to show to you (to draw to you) the awakening of Psyche[i] through Cupid, their instantaneous, painful, ‘convulsive’[ii] Beauty.
Then, I try to wash my knees, to vanish inside the lake, to dissolve soundlessly, like a pollen through the wind, not to bring weight upon you, like the murmur of the leaves covering the fusion of our palms.
And yet, I resent inside myself, rebelling against my apathy, my shameful dirty fragility, my brazen cowardice?! How easy it is to lose the axis, the structure of physical presence! My lightness becomes your burden built by silences.
I fondle the stones around us, striving to build a column out of me, strong enough to hold our fragile pergola; and yet, how can I possibly acknowledge the speech of the surrounding ivories, birds, cells, body partitions?
You are rising like a solid rock with a mathematically precise irregularity towards the roofs of your closed future. I am falling along your ascent like a waterfall with a feminine noise, lithe as the Wind trembling between the two of us.
This wind sculpts a living Home for birds, fishes, butterflies, ivories, and we remain windfully to build an ever-changing cave with disproportionately carved rooms; me-pouring a cold love upon you, caressing you by drizzling, by flowing; you-keeping stillness, bitterly, like a steep porous stone, soaked by a water canopy.
Ljubljanski Grad, 7.6.2018
[i] Cupid Playing With A Butterfly. Antoine-Denis Chaudet, 1763, Paris. Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. Antonio Canova, 1787, Paris. [ii] ‘The beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all’. Andre Breton, Nadja, 1928, Paris.
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