I'M WRITING TO YOU

 ... but I don't publish it anymore. I write and keep, like the figure of the four of pentacles, I keep the love I have for you, as if it were sterile, as if it were not even mine, as if it deserved the cold tomb of a land that produces nothing. I write to you and I keep myself cold, in honor of your coldness that freezes my senses. I am writing to you, but perhaps it is for me that I should do it. To love myself, more to me, only me, so that vultures cannot see that love is still the noblest of feelings, the greatest human gift, what we feel for the other is pure filigree, woven by the finest threads of our human nobility. And so I keep in me, every smile, every hair, every shade of your sovereign senses, your evasive observations, your creative qualities, your embrace that will chase me to the blanket of brown and damp earth where everything turns to dust, and then nothing that can be seen there, except the dryness of the flower petals thrown in disdain,  thrown at someone who revealed himself, who became malnourished and who finally left, with love as if he were a four of diamonds. Love can't be kept. It is an animal that needs to be shared, to walk in the arms, in the mouths of humans, that goes mad inside, that erupts and expands into severe and hot lava, that requires an equal body where there is a river, a plain, a tank, a current, and I keep you in me, so that they cannot see that I dissolve into waters and fire in your memory that one day will burn me to dust,  grain of the same millstone, and I write to you no more. I keep you sacralized, inhuman, whole, divinized, who will temper my days until I come, sideways, that day, that hour, that ray that extinguishes me and frees me to other heavens where loving you is not sin, incoherence or improvidence of the gods. And I keep with me the photos, like in a museum, that pass from my fingers, from my mouth and return to the hiding place between the pages of the book I'm reading, walking from author to author, making you a silent secret, eternal memory, I scourge myself while I kiss you, soak you, desire you, I want you, I wrap you, like a bookmark where you make yourself a promise that has been detached, who lost the hurry to come true, an individual dream that did not know how to perish. I write to you, but I don't edit you, I don't publish you, because you are the feat, my last conjecture, dilemma, human fragrance, my ball of pain, my body of voluptuousness, my entrails, my bed, my blanket, my muse, my trick, my yesterday lost in today, my everything that is ingrained in my skin, between the organs, the viscera, the waves, the fogs, the redeemer of lives, and I whisper love to you in the dark, in the dream, while I sleep, but not divulging you, that even the walls envy you, the old furniture, the mirror, the adornments wish to be loved, the evening breezes seek you through my eyes that stare and find you squalid between the image two by three, Miniature of the immense that in me you are and will always be, the tenderness of a child, the desire of a woman, you Adamstor, you Corporal Boujador, in the silence of musical notes, in the unequal pauses of time, I keep you, I shut you up, I shut me up.