It’s not of love that I die, I die of you.
I die of you, love, of love of you.
Of an urgent need of mine, of my skin, for you;
of my soul for you, and of my mouth.
And of the unbearable man that I am without you.
I die of you and of me, I die of both.
Of us, of that one,
the one that’s torn, broken.
I die, I die you, we die it.
We die in my room, where I’m alone,
in the bed where you miss me,
on the street where my arm is empty,
in the theatre and in parks, on the streetcar:
in those places where my shoulder is used to your head,
and my hand to your hand,
and I know you with all of me, as I know myself.
We die in the place I have lent to air,
for you to be outside me.
And in the place where air runs out,
when I throw my skin onto yours
and we know ourselves within us, away from the world,
joyous, penetrated, and surely, unending.
We die, we know it. They ignore it, we die.
Between the two of us, now, separated
from one another, daily,
falling over multiple statues,
in gestures that we don’t see,
in our hands, which need us.
We die, love, I die in your womb,”
which I can’t bite, or kiss;
in your sweet and living thighs;
In your endless flesh, I die of masks,
of obscure and incessant triangles.
I die of my body and your body,
of our death, love, I die. We die.
In the well of love, at every hour,
inside of me, I mean, I call for you.
You’re called upon by the ones who are born,
by those coming from behind, the ones that come to you.
We die, love, and do nothing,
but die even more, hour after hour,
and write, and talk, and die.