Cecilia Borromeo Poems

It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen
...

My secrets
appear on your window
when you fog the division
with your own warm breath
...

Another day is here and my hands are still covered
with a mantle of stoic ink
words scribbled on a hesitant paper
wishing to be read now not later.
...