My tongue cut in halves;
Bitter words and old gold blooming leaves of the decayed cocoa tree.
They dance slowly in the midnight of the meridian sun.
But now the tears stop in the oyster shell balance of my nose.
The salt crystallizes in the bowl like holy water.
We used to lick this salt
Tasting none of the bitterness that blackens me now;
We tasted nothing but laughs, clutching the constellation quilt in our young hands.
I have forgotten those hands and that invisible taste.
I drowned, hanging onto my mink furs in the basilica,
I thought I held the cord trailing to the moon.
But here I opened unused eyes,
And proven in the black mirrors of fortune,
I found myself in the bath.