I’m tired, my love. As long as it can be a coat that you wear only once, then you leave it in the closet and the moths eventually take shelter where your chest, neck or shoulders would have been. And their wings are my fingers caressing you emptiness. I’m malformed, sad. Tired as the body after a nightmare in which, your love, alive and palpable, had suddenly become a field of poppies and each flower had surrounded itself with barbed wire fences. Fences I had to put aside … and your caresses they were hurting me. There was no more blood, only red flowers all around. Your body that someone was selling by the pound was still red … and I was crying because I was worried about too many things at once. To catch at least one tear …. or the heart …. or the soles …..