Nothing's easier than leaving
when the trace of smoke behind you chokes
the asphalt and the road is empty for you.
Behind and ahead confuse each other
with mingled salutations aimed at your heart,
puny heart that every touch can turn to blood.
Blood left paths in your dreams, remember,
as they used to swallow up these streets and rooms
and lock them, skinned alive in fearful nights.
Your nights or mine, depending on the day,
when I turn my back to the mirror, naked,
reminiscent of skin and flesh and perfume.
My skin, slowly loosening, softly brushed,
as I lie in someone's bed, wondering
if god can forgive this cowardice.