To love is to reconstruct, when you are away, your steps, your silences, your words, and to pretend to follow your thoughts when unmoving at last by me side, you fall silent. Love is a secret rage, an icy and diabolic pride. To love is not to sleep when in my bed you dream between my circling arms, and to hate the dream in which, beneath your brow, you abandon yourself, perhaps in other arms. To love is to listen at your breast, until my greedy ear is glutted, to the noise of your blood and the tide of your measured breath. To love is to absord you young sap and join our mouths in one river-bed until the breeze of your breath impregnates my entrails forever.
Love is a mute, green envy, a subtle and shining greed.
To love is to provoke the sweet moment in which your skin seekd my awakened skin, to gratify the nocturnal appetite and to die once more the same death provisional, heart-rending, dark. Love is a thirst, like that of a wound that burns without being consumed or healing, and the hunger of a tormented mouth that begs for more and more and is not sated. Love is an unaccustomed luxury and a voracious gluttony, always empty. The Angels You might say the streets flow sweetly through the night. The lights are dim so the secret will be kept, the secret known by the men who come and go, for they re all in on the secret and why break it up in a thousand pieces when it s so sweet to hold it close, and share it only with the one chosen person.