From the eaves, the wasps start building their hive. The shadow of insects that circle around them is observed through the thin curtains. That movement is what I view in the darkness of your pupils.
Don’t trust. Remember no lover arrives unarmed.
This love, a war declared for the last clod of salt. Here, there is no mercy. The lover proving to be the victor feels the salt’s grain dissolving on the tongue. In that crystal, there is an image in blood of the fallen lover.
Thereafter, the thirst will be eternal.
We already said that between lovers there is always a weapon. There it is, in the air that breathes, without revealing itself. Sometimes it will graze against you; hot, humid, its ant-crawl on various points of the body. You could say that it’s the weapon which binds the lovers, like a bridge that is hidden in fog, and unites two islands. That, I fear, is something more profound than love. At some point, the weapon will decide to let its purple glisten in one of the lover’s hands.
Buried beneath the purple petals, you will find the weapon. It will still be warm. Leave it in the same place where you took it. Someone will find it again.
What matters most in love is who shoots first.
The house filled with fine black sand. The wasps continued to spin around the hive that is now complete. Deep into the night, they assure that a light will reach each room before the thickest penumbra may seize the house.