Butterflies wrapped in translucent strands —
dresses woven from heat that has no memory.
They are hammering on the Moon’s head.
We are there, inside the rhythm of the blows.
Tap-tap, we dance in a room.
The grey carpet is our ocean.
I see it, I feel it — you’re holding me.
Everything is dyed blue; my eyes ache.
It flows onto the table like a stream — I scream.
Don’t be afraid of anything.
Don’t worry anymore.
They cannot take the past away from us.
It is the solace of frozen time.
The memory of your soft palm is lulling.
I dream that I am dreaming you.
At last, the Moon will dissolve — I know.
The only meaning of being awake
is waiting for the silence of the night,
for another dream that opens into sleep,
through which I can reach your scent.
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