I am curling my fingers inwards
one by one
like writings from the palm I am scrawling now
not from the tip of my fingers
in my palm
I totally rebel against me

this thought is stalking me
an image burned on my retina:
in winter
he smilingly turns his gloves inside out
filling them up with snow

I uncurled my fingers and touched him once more
he was completely pellucid from tip to toe
especially in the sole of his foot
that shallow indent caressing the road

I sent my big toe out to that place
pushing briskly three times
and the huge gate I used to hang my orgasms up
opened

then I prepared my hands for being severed
I leaned on my left shoulder
and passed them to him, through the gate, several times
to lift his spirit

and again I was like in the passage of time
as I liked saying

and I threw myself on that bed
like an old blanket
in the middle of the town, a parking space
with ‘have you paid and displayed’ sign.