A misty gap between the chambers of your heart
(A left upside the righteous sigh,
a right down to the left behind)
clenched atoms blurring your vision
(the matter of your sounding mind
on steps displaced from time)
of walking mirrors passing by your rusty veins of life.
Awaiting for the blade to glide on skin-
(so wrinkled by synchronous moves, in groups of thought
synchronous dots collide on screen)
the shuddered patterns of refraction on concave unforgettable sensations
(carved in my insulated mirrored life;
in senseless time I wait.)
How many times can I be killed with love?