The night is still old
So let’s begin the suture now.
I will take this thread
The one made from
the skin of the
intestines
of the dead man
you talk about
So frequently.
the one who sits inside
the iris of your right eye
I have taken his veins
Extracted their color
Made it into a paste
Like the color those Renaissance painters
Used for their draperies
Diving in
Which skin shall be punctured first?
The forearm?
The bicep?
That equilateral triangle
formed between freckles?
We are forming a word.
I go inside
You pull out a vowel
Then I start the consonant.
Know.
What a word,
You laugh.
And then, Cheers.
To another night’s mystery solved.
As the distance between us
The paragraphs that separate
Remain spoken
Only in ink.
Only in chapters
that remain to be seen
Breathless
Another stitch
begins
