In their essence, phenomena get simpler:
wood burns, water freezes, all matter rots,
either you love me or you don´t.
The burning tar of your eyes glows
through stone, I flee them in sleep but hear
your voice, knowing you´re a delucion, a chimaera.
Your absence made me suffer
all a man can, fire in my flesh,
my wine vinegared, my poems curdled to sludge.
When you finally turn up, you put down
from another star, you´re not completely here, I see,
you´ve left something behind, something you´ve sent ahead.
Still, if fate did exist I´d
thank it that when my light was out you came
and torched me blind to myself and reality.
But you don´t love me yet, daren´t, I suppose:
there´d be no death, I´d not be rotting.
I´ll not ask more than you can.