Asemic

Write the poem, the easier it is to drool out of your mouth, it can lay on the lap of your lover, and transform a sinful night, very sweetly, it can be touched, lived, whispered, hungered, timed, danced, desired, tailored, mystified, so if you wish to say it, if you wish to tell me, you can write it, the tongue of a civilization rests upon, it now rests, in me, you will say the words I need, tell them, and then write them, write them so they make sense, to the future that awaits beyond us.

The lines are scribbled.

The wrist shakes in the most horrifying of ways. You scream like a baby. A pile of blood astounds, but a page continues, another line, another stroke, and again and again. What you say to me, it will there stay, and I will listen to it in my mind whenever I see it. It will turn in my eyes. I can breathe its humid trepidation. The words that caress me. The lives that you have inspired in me.

Read what you have written.

Say what you have written.

Again and again. With feeling. With the same meaning that it is supposed to have.

The things you say, call them like the wind is called, like the trees are born, like the earth is soiled and virginal, like the sky is filled with stars, and just like that, you can give the sound to a line, the line to a sound, and you will read it to me, until your throat is closed and my ears die of boredom.

A thing you can say, a thing you can repeat again, forever, and marvel at its importance. That is the feeling of what you have felt for me. You can understand.

Again, it is said, the timing is precise, the object is permanent, the heart is fluttered, the emotion driven from one extreme to the other, a life conquered with speech, the language of lovers and friends and admirers, it matters little, if I love you back, if you will love me forever, as long as you write, and I hear what I have to say, and you say what you’ve written, and I see it every often, with the same dreadful, tired eyes.

Write something else, and tell me what you feel when you say it again, the same thing you told me, the same feeling you’ve shared, and write more if it is hard.

There is no reference left, just a line from the lip to the tip, the drenched memories, they will know and guess, and you can taste it again, as long as you write it again and say it again, you can love intensely and similarly, all the time, with the same words, the word, the word that is what is written, what will go by and off, what will be said for centuries.

Write it again, the poem, the poem with a different line, and a different movement, and a screech. There is the cycle, you can write, and somebody can read, the same person it is, and I can hear it, and someone will decipher it, eventually, with time, with passion when it is all extinct.