Your hands grope in the dark, crimson
sash winding around you like blood
streaming into the crevices between us,
fingers trembling like lilacs, purple scent
stiller than marble statutes.
"Lament me on your lyre", you murmured:
I wanted to immortalize you in my poems,
like Greek pedophiles turning their hard-ons into statues
colder than corpses, whole and unfragmented
like love that has not seen the end of tomorrows -
unlike our love, querida, que qeubrava, que me quebrou.
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