It’s strange how the only thing I can remember of you today is your left breast with a wet nipple pointed towards my eyes. 

I suppose it will be something else tomorrow, someplace else with no pubic hair, only the divine abstractness of your entity. 

If not, then I will think about something bewitching, a soul or your red panty or a whorish pussy.

The jingoistic world of psychoanalyzation or your breasts, I always choose the second. 

I always think of giving myself a pleasure, but everytime find myself on my knees in front of your aesthetic melancholia. 

A numb night of thoughts and you in my breath, one day I will merge myself with your emptiness. 

Let me live through the politics of this world, the architectures of Majesty, the tunes of chords or a fire city. 

Your breast by my side I will find my place on a road. 

Dreaming through my life I will wake up tomorrow in a hope to remember you or your pussy or your breasts or a war of you.  

I am sinking in my misery, don’t run away with my poems. 

I am too hungry to light a cigarette. 

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