Sans colours
I would like to paint your lips
First
Transforming
Your cries into sobs
I want to twine around you
The moments
Of our competing breathing
should last centuries.
The nail wounds you made
Upon my chest
In that semi sleep
should have a sugary pain.
And at last
I will die
Leaving behind
A half done lip picture.
But this death should accompany
A wet dream
In which you will filter
My whole inner strength.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem