I can stomach
losing you every day:
the idea
of talking to
you at least
has been
consolation enough
for what good
it offers
having you
back in my arms—
if your heart
rests in the hands
of another
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoesíaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
