I know that this morrow is as I thought it would be when I thought of it yesterday
thou art here
I can place a face and a name
Remains of a residue which stains the very fabric of the morning which is to be
don’t get me wrong: I want you for me
but …
’tis impossible. Though my belly hurts I see thou as an impossibility within reach.
Yet
every break of dawn
sunset
I forget thee on purpose since you remain an illusion
a fragment
a figment
una conjetura
Do I want you or do I want the elusive illusion of thee?