I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.
In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.
As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?