II

I don’t talk to you, I don’t see you

I don’t touch a shadow of your steps

I don’t — how naked you want me to be?

Don’t believe me, don’t believe me at all.

And when I place moments in my certain shape

when I refute your smile

when I call beauty a perishable shell

don’t believe me — although I tell you the truth.

I can’t endure this futile hope that

I survive in your by chance thought

though each night I warm it up again.

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