I couldn’t write about it. Nor could I keep it a secret.
The wool unspun from the wheel, completely inevitable, when you said it’s okay. 
Was it in the way you uttered the words, or the soulful stare you gave away?
Do you know where to find it? Do you know when you’re there?

The wind sweeps your hair.
You have no control and that’s beautiful.
In less than 24 hours, you found yourself being swept away
by the scene of entangled cars, bridges, hotels, a stretch of river and flocks of bodies,
and your body wrapped in another body.
In less than 24 hours, you found yourselves entangled
in each other’s lives. Tell me.
Is it an invented paradigm? Or is it something deep-down?

All mornings you gaze upon his face, and you couldn’t be more sure.

How can you know? In the smell of one’s neck? In the mess of dishes? In fantasies and fetishes?
In idle nights or speedy days? In expressions you can or cannot tell?
Have you known?

No, don’t tell me. It’s okay.