Crush

Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.

History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,

over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.

History is a little man in a brown suit

trying to define a room he is outside of.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.

Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly

flames everywhere.

I can tell already you think I'm the dragon,

that would be so like me, but I'm not. I'm not the dragon.

I'm not the princess either.

Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down.

I walk through your dreams and invent the future.

Of course, she wakes the dragon

Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on

Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts

from one foot to the other.

We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me

spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls

I'm sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.