Rough on my skin
are the moments
your absence
turns more and more thin

and sharp-spined
are the cactuses
life throws at me
from all sides

and all around
unseen unseen
pools a pool
of my own blood.
I wait as patient

you might say
as a thirsty poppy
longing for rain

Hot are my sighs
of passionate expectation
as if I were smoking
a poisonous cigarette

are the hands of the clock
as I wait for you
I want to hit out and strike them
and then my soundless shout
shatters them
a withered skeleton

Time has ceased to pass.
Time has lost its hands.

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