The body is the prosthetic limb of our desires, an extension to our lust, the nerve endings programmed to touch and lead us into despair. The body lets you know there’s a limit to our [love]. Every touch is an ending in progress, the entropy, the heat and the cold. [Love] is a sequence of evil-minded angels descending from heaven hand in hand like barrel toy monkeys. The body unfolds, makes itself visible as the years go by. One of the angels looks back in fear knowing this is no good. But things are now settled. The leader of the pack is no animal. The leader of the pack is an idea. ‘We must love’, he says. Hand in hand the evil-minded angels descend. The one at the beginning of the stream holds all the weight. We make [love] and hold on to a cloud. The act of our creation was not blessed. It does not matter. The way we hold each other, my muscles tightening around your waist, is a blessing. Our love is fury, revenge, happening at the end of that stream of angels hand in hand like barrel toy monkeys.
Thank you for your last letter. I didn’t get it yet, but thank you anyway. I wonder. Why does it have to be like this? There are some laws, internal to the universe, which I simply cannot comprehend, let alone work/ function according to them. They say, one day, you’ll reach a point when everything will be clear. Yet I fear that day may come too late, at a point when I won’t be able to enjoy it. I do not wish to grow old and, a few seconds before I die, realize that everything has been in vain, and that everything stops there, in that realization, and that there is nothing else to look forward too. I couldn’t imagine a world without love, as I couldn’t imagine a world without beauty. So, I need to say this to you, dear friend. If you are indeed reading this and if you do have a sudden revelation while reading, don’t let that feeling go. You are special to me, and I wish you all the happiness the world could offer you. These words are not in vain. I know we pride ourselves with having one of the most sophisticated means of communication, language, but you need to know that words remain, and they will go deep, as deep as they can, and they will stay there for as long as our organic life shall permit. Words can fall in love, and you could fall in love with words too. They can seduce you, caress you, make love to you at night and before dawn. That is why I’m telling you this, dear friend, ’cause if they can love, they can also hate, they can also hurt you. But you already know these things, there’s no need for me to tell you that. I’m actually telling you this because I’ve tried it on my own skin. I fell in love with your words, and every night I pull those words to my chest as if they are alive. Yet, maybe they are. I’m sure they are. I need them to be alive. Otherwise, I couldn’t feel you as I do, breathing between the sheets.
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.