She went with a promise of not gazing over the horizons ever, 

and ever since I have been in this place, this dry spell of sands and euphoria; 

i am trying to compose a verse on her and the twilight. 

She went back to infinity, she went back to unfathomable cosmology. 

That’s not sadistic, that’s not war, 

but I am without this home. 

For most of the parts I used to draw on her naked breasts,

Lights from the oceans, streets full of cars, hysterical cities, surreal smogs. 

And she could never gather her thoughts over a perky state of physicality. 

I guess this poem of an infertile evening is much better than getting translucent through the horizons,

for her may be.