My soul
Empty as the silence,
Empty with a vague,
Aching emptiness
Desiring,
Needing someone
Something ......

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

it is not important
that you take your bag and leave
all women take their bags and leave
when they are angry.
it is not the important question
that i put out my cigarettes nervously
on the upholstery of the chair,
all men do that
when they are angry.
the matter is not that simple.
it is out of our hands.
we are two zeroes in the margin of love.
two lines written in pencil.
what is important is this:
the golden fish thrown to us by the sea
was squashed between our fingers.