It's you who I slowly behold
without, in fact, looking at...
Endless times I expect - without looking -
that your eyes in me rest.
And in my back your seduced lookout weighs
in the burning chest I feel it ignoring, stone.
I know that, deceived, I dream of someone you are not
just the one I think loving me, strict complexion.
And when, completely lost, you look at me in the eyes,
without in fact looking at me,
my begging mind lies : lies happily.
It whispers to me ( shouting out loud )
in the anxiety that you also see me -
the one who you awaken dream of
but imagine she (not) be
the one you think loving you
but know (not) want -
and that you believe hurting (you).
Can the former picture be love?
Felt only in the perception pathos.
One that doubts in time mourns
contracting pain - perceived perception -
taking in the heart (art) major space
smiling at the sweet assumption - blessed water-
holding the communion host.
It disdains the bloom, gives the hand.
A love that - when touching -
doesn´t dissemble, pleads faces
and eyes in the eyes burning;
lips touch, close thought -
the eyelids feeling the moment flow;
the heart beat, accelerated nerve;
so many the words that I keep within.
It's you who I slowly behold
without, in fact, looking at.
I kiss you.

(by Conceição Sousa )