After a black day, there is no forgiveness
Only the solitary confinement of our mind
And prayer, I feel the little warmth of my hands
Not that I have skin, only a kind of soul –
- * *
It’s not what I would have expected, blank
There are no keys left, no passengers, no partners
Only the brevity of this, the journey that felt like nothing
That sounds that led to the sound of falling rain
- * *
The way I fell asleep to not hear or hold my own tears
There are no pockets of music, of pillows of love
Only maybe, the sound of myself breathing, the beat of seconds
I lasted as long as I could, given to foolish courage
My calm was a kind of white shade, the devotion for other things
- * *
That I myself possessed, it wasn’t that I felt no hungers
For the wider world of experiences, but I couldn’t afford them
I had my obsessions and inner dictates to attend to, and they were rather considerable
The movements and acts of love, they were silently expressed in me
But so passionate, so invisible, so faithful to their course
That I could feel them embrace me like their own curse.
Wuji Seshat 