If that naughty smile of yours
that disdainfully
refuses my love
was hail,
I would cover my face
to protect myself from it
with my blood stained hands
eager to begin again
to love
to dream
to fly
to shake
but those curare arrows
that strike my heart
and make me die
of a thousand deaths,
they are not hail.
Without you
which is the meaning of living,
if living has no meaning?

June 16, 2021