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.