When I speak to you,
I feel that the abstract, elusive music
that plays in the empty theatre of my heart
has found an audience.

I speak to you with the ease with which I think to myself,
for I find the boundary between our souls is but the remnants of fabric we have mostly removed.
I speak to you in surrealist paintings,
and you understand.

We have surpassed Magritte’s lovers.
We have removed the fabric from our faces
and exchanged unclothed kisses
in broad daylight.

Three salty tears in my eyes,
I have longed for you
as your face, with its three big eyes,
has rested on my brow.

I have dreamt of your blood flowing through a grapevine,
you lying saintlike in the desert,
a martyr.
You have entered my blood as wine. Its composition has been changed by you.

You have entered the theatre of my heart.
Only you have heard its music.
And it sings for only you.