what is that leftover desire

that sunken bluish desire

 

that creases, blackening   

like a fast burning napkin

 

as we eat our thick soup

made of a vegetable cube?  

 

Words, an untranslatable 

ritual, this rare daily fable 

 

we’ve learnt to recite 

by heart since that night 

 

we’ve met, by chance 

when something hit us

 

in the face and nothing

was left behind, nothing

 

but a new warming taste 

of spit, blood, a soft paste

 

swallowed by each other’s 

organs, our fat hearts.