A thousand breaths

Nostalgia, dead? No, I want it living
but not so much that it kills me, or
that, through it alone, I may live.

I want it with a face, or that one thousand
faces may not be, of it, the limit perceived
in my face, I want it with eyes, with hands,
with echoes, I want it sitting or passing by
not with me, but in the thousands spaces
where, in itself, it lives – and, sometimes,
so do I.

I want it conjured up in the time
where time exorcises me; I want
it nude of fatuous infinites, just
like me. I want it wearing the same
robes, shredded of moments; I want it
indecently pure, skin to skin.

I want it mute, but so that it may
recite me such as I read it, deaf
and by heart, line by line, and that it
may close me in its mouth, open
to the kiss or a thousand kisses
flavoured of impromptu, sung or
to be tasted in my tongue.

Yes, I want it in the tongue
in which it understands me
and I learn it, the one which
assimilates us and conceives us
in a touch of that saliva which
was, in the beginning, its own,
my own, our consummate end.

But not of death, no, because
I want it living, and in it, consummated,
solely, the breath that is never
consumed. Its own – Nostalgia’s
thousand breaths, which will go on
breathing, after I’ve exhaled
my last one.

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®

For something entirely different - and hopefully, for a few good laughs - read also... what I posted in my "articles" section... and, if you are not a kid anymore, don't be deterred by the "I agree" - "I disagree" notice which, I suppose, is automatically added when certain words are detected. Enjoy...