One day…

One day, I don’t know when,

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,

foreign forms,

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:

forgetfulness

from the other side of the world.

Only your shirt

will remember

you loved deeply,

but you will not know whom.

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