you’ll wake up with a familiar taste on your lips,
but you will not remember whose is it
and you’ll breathe my scent
without knowing that it’s mine.
Your sleepy hand will meet among linens,
that fingers do not know,
that do not match,
that do not blend with your skin,
with your breath,
as your bed
bares the shape of my body,
so naturally, just like your white shirt,
was made for me.
And a pair of lips will kiss you
but not slightly biting your lip,
for they do not know how you like it.
Your beard will have been longed shaved,
and all that will connect us will be:
from the other side of the world.
Only your shirt
you loved deeply,
but you will not know whom.