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Autopsy of a Romance
August 20, 2012
The night when I first lived
alone, the forest appeared
as a piece of gray paper
torn away from the painting
it was meant to cover.
I sought nothing more
than the common quadruplicity of limbs.
And he said, “Do you know
what a bruise means?”
and I said, “Yes.” And he said,
“It means there is pain,
even after a long
time.” Echoes of fingersteps
linger on the legs.
This is the wound
yearning for its perpetrator.
© Anonymous
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