Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Incurable Disease of Immensity

The Incurable Disease of Immensity

I got lost through you like an ant through galaxies of tears,
and your weeping waters deserts I never knew existed inside me,
for your eye is an ocean that drowns within its very salt,
and I am the happy shipwreck who no longer wants to be saved.

I caught you like a fever without knowing what it meant, no cure,
an incurable disease called immense, called you, called us,
and your silences are full of whispers like populated galaxies,
with stars that tangle facts and unstitch them into threads of light.

That essence born from nothing chose me senator at the congress of humor,
and your tear, a supersonic ant, now crosses through my eye,
a flicker-moment where the millennium contracts into a syllable,
and time becomes a drug dissolved in the serum of your nights.

I am addicted to your nights the way the sea depends upon the moon,
and evenings are warm puddles where I sink but never drown,
for you are the water that burns and the fire that quenches thirst,
the living paradox in which I lose myself to find myself complete.

Through glances we first met, through two or three entangled feelings,
and every moment spent with you is a millennium compressed in bone,
a succulent dram of present that I sip like sweetest poison,
and words become supersonic when I know how to whisper them to you.

Just like that, let's say, the shamelessness of getting lost through you is holy,
for my wretched veins all flow toward your heart as toward a center,
and I am the shadow that illuminates, I am the silence that screams,
I am the echo of a word the universe forgot it meant to speak.

I no longer ask the stars' permission to shine inside your eyes,
for I have learned that light is born from darknesses in love,
and the tear that floods your gaze is a blessed deluge,
in which swim words so unique they refuse to be kept silent.

To my moment of millennium I give genius, I give fuel made of soul,
and to your nights I offer my addiction like a gift wrapped up in veins,
for this incurable disease, this immensity without any borders,
is the only diagnosis I accept: I love you, I love you, I love you.

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