Memory is an overlife.
While I lean to kiss you
to caress your bosoms
I think of the overlife that shall supervene me
in your memory
I will live beyond my years
in the seam of your neck so white
as the lunar glow
one evening, in Calella,
in the month of August,
year: two thousand and six,
I will live beyond my years
in your memory of a nocturnal woman
who, from the cot, gazes
at the window through which a city like a Richard Estes painting
flickers its lights on and off
between the billboards of Banks and of Safe-houses
cars and offices
I will live beyond my years
in your memory
of the woman who, in loving me loves herself within my love
and you will remember the feather crest
with which you covered your nakedness
and the bottle of water fallen in the midst of kisses
and the glow of your muted television
which blankly illuminated our bodies
darkening them at times
like under-eyelid-halfmoons in the middle of the skin
Memory is an overlife
As I lean to kiss you
I know I live doubly
the time of this lukewarm autumn night
on which I caressed you by my hands
with my fingers with thoughts and with my voice
and the double-life and your memory
in which we loved
beyond time itself
in the middle
in the middle of an illuminated
and silent city
which does not sleep
because we held the vigils
we kept the vigils of enjoyment
the vigils of love.
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