The one who returned
That day, I saw myself twice in the mirror
and neither one resembled the other.
One was coming toward you, and the other was turning back.
The one who came was tired, colorless;
with fear and haste, she drew lipstick across her cracked lips
to keep her distance from that ghostly face of hers,
from the face of a lost spirit.
The one who returned was the corpse of that very lost soul.
I died in your embrace—
among a hundred people standing on the bridge,
above the storks in the river,
the very moment the kingfisher dove.
Just as you pulled me toward yourself,
into your arms, though only for a brief greeting,
the seconds vanished.
On the revolving wheel, the bridge and the street and the river were dancing,
and I was giving up my life.
A drop of lipstick-red blood fell onto the collar of your leather jacket.
I laughed…
The one who returned was not like the one who had gone.
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