***
Impossible to measure,
Impossible to quantify,
The silence
In which I sit,
By which I’m fossilised,
Smelling the may bells,
Thinking of you
Unbuttoning your shirt,
Unbuttoning your heart.
The silence
In which I feel a sudden need
To touch each millimetre
Of your skin.
The silence
Of zero sun,
The silence
To be heard and seen,
The silence
In which
I
dream-by-dream
compose you
as the musician his best song,
as the painter lost in his oils…

 

(Frederi Lipczyński, thanks for triggering me with your “L’artiste pris dans sa toile…ou l’art reine niée”!)