i am the master of the
first spoken word.

tuesday
i sculpt her body
on the walls of god’s tears.

wednesday
i stalk every move she makes
through the boundlessness
of the sheets.

thursday
i invent for her the unmatchable colour
orange.

friday
i compose with my fingernail,
on the opaque sclera of the street
la symphonie d’être deux.

saturday
i give a written test to the humankind.

sunday
i watch for the countless time
as she leaves my life,
strategically,
as a tide from the lips of the sand.

monday
tired,
i wonder,
how can i write so many words just
for you.