Poetry

She was burning

She was burning,
like tobacco in the contemporary art gallery,
wrapped in the paper between the fingers
of a serious lady who never goes anywhere
without her silk gloves.
Like a dragonfly tearing its wings,
screaming under a wolf-shaped totem.

Her pulse was creating an earthquake
while propped against the cold door
of the antique souvenir shops.
She was burning
like the rain didn’t know
about another clever opponent
except for the fire.
She was burning
like she was allergic to moonlight.

A million strokes of devastated gods;
she fell like a deer flirting with fire,
only to realize its mistake later.
Her torso was like a pyre, waiting
to taste the burnt meat,
she was awkward and ancient,
with mouth lightened by the matchbox
contrary to the geometry of a metro,
which look like that, on a sketch.
Arranged in perfect symmetry.
She was burning,
keeping the blood warm,
shining through,
along with the shades of blue.
She was burning
like a cheap cigarette
between the fingers of the delinquents,
her hair was like a straw,
bribed by lightning.

I tell her that the sky chewed us,
that we’ve been reconstructed from smoke,
our oceans were kerosene,
persistently burning our bones to burn for nothing.

She was burning,
her eyes looked like flint with fossil hearts,
expired,
like lanterns that are craving
to be swallowed by the clouds,
like the lights in the bedrooms after 3 in the morning,
like candles dripping wax all over the graves,
she was burning,
and all I said was: “I know.”

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