unquietness

what i think of you is unprintable.
sometimes i think it is deeply unconscious
and oneiric
but it is not precious like a nightmare
or a miracle.

we both know how rificulous
is your hand offering me the clouds
as if i could accept your breath
as mine or your stupidity as an antidote
against my own smallness.

it is tiring to feel and not to feel
at the same time
because you are a desire after another desire,
a pulsation hidden beneath my brain cortex.
and i don't want to understand lingering possibilities
and domesticated doubts:
i am overwhelmed
as i carry you in my bandaging body
and it hurts me so much to see my heart in disrepair
and that outlasts my own life.

karla bardanza