your body searches for a body to conquer you more than sleep

Nothing is heard hearing himself swimming in this pool of shadows

I don't know how my arms aren't bruised by your breathing

as I follow in the wretchedness of crime

and you fall into the net that's stretched by sleep

In your eyes you hold the name of your accomplice

but your eyelids are harder than silence

and you'd rather kill than share that joy of sinking

eyes closed into sleep

I suffer from the pleasure with which your body searches

for a body to conquer you more than sleep

comparing the heat of your hands

with my icy hands

the quivering of your temples with my faint pulse

the plaster cast of my thighs with the skin of your thighs

that the shadows are corroding with incurable leprosy

Now I know what the sex of your mouth is

what the greed of your armpit holds close

and I curse the whispers that have flooded the labyrinth of your ear

on the breakers of the pillow

on the hard page of snow

Not the blood shot from me like an arrow from a bow

but the rage circling through my veins

flaming yellow in the middle of the night

and all the words in the prison of my mouth

the thirst which in the mirror's water

slakes its thirst with another identical thirst

From what night do I wake to this undressed night

long cruel night now no longer night

next to your body more dead than dead

that is not your body but the impression of your body

for the absence of your dream has murdered death

and my coldness is so vast that with a new heat

it opens my eyes where the shadow is hardest

and clearest and more light than light itself

and it resurrects in me what has never been

and it is a sudden pain even colder more fiery

to be nothing but the statue that wakes

in the bedroom of a world where everything is dead.

 

[Xavier Villaurrutia {1903-1950} 'Nocturne: Love', from Nostalgia for Death]