Across

I turn the page of the day,

writing what I'm told

by the motion of your eyelashes.

I enter you,

the truthfulness of the dark.

I want proofs of darkness, want

to drink the black wine:

take my eyes and crush them.

A drop of night

on your breast's tip:

mysteries of the carnation.

Closing my eyes

I open them inside your eyes.

Always awake

on its garnet bed:

your wet tongue.

There are fountains

in the garden of your veins.

With a mask of blood

I cross your thoughts blankly:

amnesia guides me

to the other side of life.