Le vent nous portera

This is a sometime thing
and it aches to count the letters
we wrote each other
and threw away
as our bodies challenged our hands.
yes, you have filled me
and i have been full of pregnant doubts
for more than two hundred moons.

we could have offered each other
perfect intervals, seamless fears
and even voluptous farewells.
but beneath my eyelashes lies a truth
you will never know
and although we pretend so well, we are still
too young to forgive each other.
(but forgiveness is an asymmetric word)

you hated me
and
i hated myself because
i chose what my skin wanted.
(and it wanted what was close)

i went there again last weekend
but you became a sort of dead ideal,
a stolen piece of splendorous yesterday
a bald statue on a pedestal,
a grain, a framed possibility.
you became an excuse.

you know you killed me first.
Oblivion was the song.
i killed you just a song after:
LE VENT NOUS PORTERA.

And the wind carried us away,
to infinte routes.
Strange as it might be
we already know
we can walk faster
if both of us can do it alone.
how far we can go from last saturday
will always be a mystery.
how many letters you kept from me
after all these years is another one.

karla bardanza