In this inverted garden,
I’m going insane again.
Writing letters to silence,
repeating the wrong dance.
When my mind decants in a glass,
kissing the air, when my body
hangs from yours
like a shot down goose
— crimson and carmine
as if both were nothing —
they are nothing.
You know the song.
You are the song.
I can’t sing it.
Sing it for me.
You know the words,
my legs, your mouth,
your weight, my weight,
this weight of ours.
Sing, sing, sing.
Oh please, darling,
don’t stop.
I can’t get used
to this absence of yours.
In this flawed garden,
this unending gutter,
I can’t get used
to the weight of ether.