you forget, I’ve watched you split my heart open like a pomegranate and carve out the seeds with your bare hands—nails stained the same colour of the sky as the sun sets in rome. if there’s ever blood on your hands again, I want it to be mine. how do you live with a guilt so large it feels like the moon is always hanging over your head, just waiting for an excuse to fall? what I mean is, how do you pretend faith in a lover who never says your name? I watched the sun rise from the walls of constantinople and considered surface tension and breaking point. oil on canvas, still life of boy with his fist against the wall, cut from hip to collarbone. I turned the night back on and signed the lease on another house. I sewed the stars back into threads of light. I don’t want to be the one putting holes in things anymore. 5 years. imagine that. the distance between us a landscape that learned to paint itself. I called from the wrong side of the fire door to tell you I was coming home. static. and you said stay gone.
Yves Olade, “Translation: an introduction to impossible arts”