the poetry of the long lasting fever

when the lines are broken and the words recall different meanings in the same situations, all one does is whine about the muteness of hands held together. what is there to understand than two hands tied with muteness. I suddenly want us to be silent, will my hand fuse on your belly. shall I melt away from the heat of your body. become one with your rough skin. because I can feel the pores and the sense of despair. all hope is lost or absent. come on, howl, I want to see drama, let that despair materialize, contrast with the secrecy of our hidden love. two bodies like this should not be together, not in this life. you know sometimes, when I’m asleep, I fear that a pair of black wings shall pierce through the skin of my back and push you away because my gods would offer me those wings just to push you away. so tie me with the sheets, let my ugly grin contrast with the nothingness you hold into your empty womb like a cursed mother. I’m afraid it is too late, you say. my gods have already denied this love. they said you shall crawl with a deserted womb until you repent.

so I write a letter, my gods, and ask them why this cut, and they say, because if you look ahead, little by little, the world shall commit suicide. we leave you with the empty wombs. and I wonder when this wrath of bones will stop growing. the fruitless womb grows bones but no flesh. we’ll have to use our own flesh to fill in the blanks. connect the dots and this love shall be complete.

I cross my palms over you belly and my hands seem displaced. and you are scared. what shall we do, you ask. shh, nothing, I say. keep this displacement silent. they need a life. we don’t. I won’t melt away from the heat of your body. black wings won’t grow from the blades of my back and push you away. love is not as inhumane as we think it is. shh, they need a life. we don’t.

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