The Oldest Romantic The Oldest Romantic

Why didn’t you warn me of the arm’s smoothness in its dormitory, where it enters the roundness of the shoulder, my eyes locked open. What made you think I’d forget the lure of the long gaze when you look back at me with that shadow under your arm when the sun is low… Why didn’t you believe it exists, the breathing in the lung under the arm, you alone with the vacant pain in one eye, the triangle of dark under you?

Nov 10, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Elisa Sampedrín