What are we?
Like, lovers in wait
in the flow of time?
Saddled with ideas
that are too much in the now
to be memories?
It is true,
we have no memory.
Only pause.
And a bit fever.
For,
I do not yet
possess
the vivid silences of your skin.
The soft discolourations.
Indentations. Punctuations.
Like incomplete thoughts,
torn mid sentence.
Each word
a soundtrack;
a scream;
a Revolution!
