Kisses of Never and No One

[Act I]

It’s the shadow of her lips
 that begins to vanish
  when she moves away from the sun;
  like a frozen heart of snow
  wishing to become kiss
   desert of storm.

It’s the very distance
 that separates warmth from cold,
  where only you remain:
   desertic;
  and her: Antarctic.

Lips of a tongue/mouth/language
 slowly unknowing themselves,
burn from afar
 and crack with closeness;
Today,
 blue precipice of vertigo.
However they are no longer one
 but two eclipses
that once desired (one another).

What more do you demand of me, love?

If we’re already thirteen months

 of letters apart,

if I have already auctioned

 the movement

and the meaning of the moon

from all my love letters, love.

Today, your kisses too

are up for auction:

 look at them, there,

being public,

 everyone seeing 

and reading them,

 those never-lips, ours,

exploring their dynamism 

in verses of no one.

What more do you demand of me, love,

 if you took away my cowardice

 that ruined me,

 mutating me into what I am today?

Distant, our ending

  writing itself in non-eternities,

 with kisses that want to steal from us,

 that already know

—they know—

 they will not be.

And they confess.

And they are crashed

 against distinct/different yours.

And they are destroyed,

today, from you and from me.

Me knowing it,

I know, I already know,

that Never you will be.

[And here she will continue:

in the heart 

and center of the poem

—supposed her or her auction]

You say love

as if it could be said,

and you write it, you,

you write it,

you and your cruelty:

both precipitating a flower

over the infinite,

spelling its immortality

during its fall, eternal,

but not its life,

in which you aren't either.

You say words,

and I die there,

like them,

like your roses,

like the flowers,

and here I stop beating,

and you ignore it

and you don't write it;

and you lie to yourself.

Me going you, you going me,

and you know this,

because you, too, are dying:

your yesterday,

today center of the poem.

And that's why 

you always return

and that's why 

you always throw me

with cruelly against you.

And you write 

to me again,

to me,

center of the poem:

never soulmate,

 soul no one

admits to not having;

me and you.

[Act II]

What will you implore

 from the daughters of denial and chance,

  Aporia and Contingency,

  if above their firmament I dwell—

  veil of a sky

  that doesn't see you?

Will you seek to immortalize them

  with promises

  that only make you believe

  you could brush a tomorrow,

     fate you don't know

  how to reach?

Look at yourself:

  unarmed, naked,

  hungry and filthy.

Look at you:

  what is your name,

  if even your tongue

  you have forgotten,

  mortal?

How will you tell Her

  that she was never Her,

  if all you bring

  are traitorous butterflies?

   [center of the poem]

Wings of time,

  you rise above winter,

 halting bursts

 of bygone eras;

 rain is your offering

 to the heart of my storm.

 Deny me, you,

 deny me a second time,

 and you shall make me 

legend of the impossible

—Romance of the Denied—

 tsunami is my reality.

 Deny me, you,

 when you are already

 being devoured.

Do you feel the heartbeat?

I deny you of words,

roots, their own roots,

that sink and sprout again

longing to be air

when nothing remains in them;

and if somehow I'm desired

I'll deny us too:

to us,       

Judges of Time,

realm where we are suspended.

Above us both

air will also pour

dying of rain;

Land of a final verse

falling from you,

hiding your tears,

frozen,

sky of summoned words

that surge from that tsunami,

now knowing themselves well,

a time upon which they seethe,

and form the geometry of the poem

until they reach you.

And I sense it while we beat:

either I remake your sky,

or we deny ourselves;

Aporia. 

[Act III]

She holds the strength

    of infinite hells,

yet her heaven

 is a spiraling heart

and burn 

  her

   infinite

    Hells

   within her.

Today and Yesterday are 

    Time or Witness

who already observe her:

    Contingency;

She is aporia-heat,

  and every carmine 

    is nothing but farewell

     of violet distance.

She is to aporize

    kisses with storms

          and no-time.

[center of the poem]

Tell me, 

you, who recited moments

beneath a time

that stands above you,

how unreachable will be 

the compass you believe you verse,

What won’t you know!

and still you’ll believe 

it shall remain,

you (and Her) Never

aporetic/aporic love:

love?

The storm awaits me,

always, ahead,

in all directions conceivable.

Times of the heart

of the one who never turns from his shadow.

If my reflections are

those I leave behind,

trails of a mirror

I would cross without kissing them:

yours, untouched.

Today, mist upon my eyes.

yet behind the tale

remains a yesterday,

mirage of a tomorrow:

the horizon I shall never cross.

The brave one

raises the sails

and he becomes helm 

when his arms strain to breaking.

he knows himself mortal,

never beyond

the gloom of your darkness.

Yet he sails into his future,

unaware,

and if he survives it,

its mists he shall verse:

the aporia of thy lips,

with boarded ships.

At the cyclone’s crest

beats the pirate heart:

eye of the hurricane

hears its echo resounding

riding a wind without center

in all possible destinies

behind, forever,

the storm shall remain.

[The poem is now

recited in reverse]

The storm shall remain,

behind, forever,

in all possible destinies

riding a wind without center,

hears its echo resounding,

eye of the hurricane

beats the pirate heart:

at the cyclone’s crest

with boarded ships.

The aporia of thy lips

its mists shall verse:

and if he survives it,

unaware;

yet he sails into his future,

the gloom of your darkness.

Never beyond

he knows himself mortal,

when his arms strain to breaking

and he becomes helm:

raises the sails

the brave one.

The horizon I shall never cross,

mirage of a tomorrow

remains a yesterday,

yet behind the tale

today, mist upon my eyes,

yours, untouched,

I would cross without kissing them:

trails of a mirror

those I leave behind,

if my reflections are

of the one who never turns from his shadow.

Times of the heart

in all directions conceivable.

always, ahead,

the storm awaits me.

[Act IV]

  

What nights must have written

   your soul to make you wish 

   to raise ruins over a celestial museum 

   with no horizon? 

Deep is the night that unmade you, 

   so you could witness our end 

   from below.

Beats the stroke of no one

   when no one invokes her name,

   and he draws it—of absent heart.

He doesn’t know, 

   doesn’t remember

   since when he has stood

   at the center of the storm;

   or since when his hand 

   no longer trembles.

He crosses the center

   and he invokes his new deity:

   No One, she.

The circle begins to close,

   though late:

   today the center is a rim

   that slips away and frees him from it.

We are ruins and kindling for his fire;

    and the threat of his yesterday

   turns inevitable:

    he is already writing

    only for her:

       Temple of Music—

       her tomorrow.

Each heartbeat opens impossible doors,

   and the Ancients do not understand

   that he is writing his tomorrow

   by the time they come to know

   that they will already have gone,

      fused, into a forever—he and she—:

      a temple with a new goddess,

      bronze throat, golden bow,

      the soul of a subject in ruins.

It is not an ancient prophecy,

   it is his final fate:

   We, statues of another time:

       he is leaving us,

       we melt into one, 

       into all, into nothing,

       only to survive

       his next storm.

What are we?—you asked.

And Music wrote his name:

      You, who look at us from her beyond, 

      what are you?—she sang to him.

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