Wait—
like a lover-blade or a lover-crown offering itself to my nocturnal and tyrannical pleasure,
or like paper abandoned to a fate unknown to the world.
On that table, the scratched marks from sleepless nights,
from weeks—or months—yet to be processed, yet to grow in desire,
lie scattered amidst cheerful waters,
pregnant with images and dreams and metaphors—
continuous, hungry,
drawn from your smooth whiteness,
open to my deformed imagination.
Wait a little longer,
O paper in love—
wait for my restless dawns and anguished delusions.
Wait for me, who no longer knows how to love you,
yet still seeks you—
among colorful ghosts and folk drawings,
among the lopsided recesses of plots inflamed
by florid and solemn ices.
Wait for me among folds blackened
by endless memories, complex projects, luminous structures,
wild utopias.
Among inscrutable syntagmas—
and your legs, and wrists, and thighs—
and my eyes, which no longer know how to observe
but devour you still, and always,
and only through you.
Incessantly.
In the projections of your pursuit of me—
in vain—
across the unbridgeable miles that separate and nourish us,
that bloom supreme in the violent darkness
of our avoidance.
Wait for me,
just a little longer,
O desperate paper.
The huge lamp watches over you at night,
O paper of emperor signs—
by day it becomes the sun,
burning every inch of your body
stretched to the winds of storms
and sorrowful, supreme fantasies.
O paper, my beloved—paper in love—
I am stunned by this light of mine,
and your frequency,
nauseating the senses and mental logics
with unrestrained marasmus:
chaos and lanes,
precise lines and broken spirals,
bruised lemmas and natures
fragmented by childish gaiety,
by impuberant orgasms, vulgar spasms, primordial steppes—
where every decimeter of uncontrolled sense
couples with our innermost desires,
we, lovers at the far, far margins,
fornicating at the edges of a surreal map.
O beloved paper,
you blast toward the unreachable heights of my world:
multifarious digits, upside-down letters,
garish numbers, butts of signs and broken words,
illogical designs and inner architectures,
the ungainly bowels and unspeakable secrets
of my overflowing existence.
O paper, warming the snows of my violent striding,
through silent streets of remote countries,
past sudden chasms holding the keys to my unraveling—
where burn the feelings of nothingness,
childlike projections,
and the tireless, sun-drenched, isolated journeys from you.
O my beloved paper,
paper in love.
