The celestial mines lie a million meters above sea level,
and tenderness is extracted there.
In the desperate search for tenderness,
first the skin on my knees and stomach scrapes against underwater reefs,
my skin stings a little from the saltwater,
and then I break against the coastal rocks.
And somewhere between the scratches and the stones,
I meet you every time.
Maybe you’re the only one who knows the true coordinates of the celestial mines.
The rocks lean over the water with jagged stone elbows.
At the tips of these elbows, the pine forest watches silently
as what’s left of me settles slowly onto the seaweed and sand after we’ve met.
Slowly — like dust drifting in a beam of backlight,
like atoms of weightlessness suspended in gravityless space.
I freeze.
Hold my breath.
Uno dos tres cuatro.
Then, with the next storm, I rise to the surface again.
The cycle repeats:
reefs / stomach / salt / you / celestial / mines / sharp impact / rock-elbows / pines / I’m gone.
For some reason, this autumn I crave, more than ever, to sit on your lap.
To sit in a chair on some wooden terrace wrapped in grapevines.
To drink tea from the same cup
and feel how my collarbones fit perfectly beneath the curve of your fingers.
How my cheekbones continue the lines of your temples.
How my breasts nest perfectly into the shape of your palms.
To watch how our hair tangles in the wind like stage curtains,
behind which my lips extend the line of your lips.
This happens only once every million years —
when two hunters of tenderness meet.
I take a running start and fall into you with immense force,
straight from the sky, like the first drops of rain,
and you, like warm steaming earth, catch me
and drink me in greedily.
Together we exist in a space of pure gravity,
dizzy with tenderness,
our ears popping like they do on a plane.
And there, a million meters above sea level,
in a zone of heightened turbulence,
we extract tenderness from the celestial mines.
We stuff our pockets with it and carry it in our bare hands,
breathe it into our lungs along with oxygen,
never getting enough.
Tenderness — desperately sought, and desperately wanting.
My cheekbones continue the line of your temples.
You’ll text me that you miss me
when you step out to buy bread.
And I’ll come out barefoot to meet you.
uno — the bread will be hot and fierce, like you, like the earth, like the sun.
dos — it will be summer, and the rain will begin.
tres — the scratches from the salt will burn on my knees and stomach.
cuatro — and every time, I’ll crash even harder.
The celestial mines are located a million thousand meters above sea level,
and they extract tenderness there.
In the desperate search for tenderness, first, the skin of my knees and stomach gets scratched by underwater reefs,
my skin stings a little from the saltwater,
and then I shatter against the coastal rocks.
And somewhere between the scratches and the rocks,
I meet you every time.
Maybe you’re the only one who knows the exact coordinates of the celestial mines.
The rocks lean over the water with triangular stone elbows.
At the tips of the elbows, the pine forest silently watches
as what’s left of me settles slowly onto the seaweed and sand after we’ve met.
Slowly — like dust in backlight,
like atoms of weightlessness suspended in a space without gravity.
I freeze.
Hold my breath.
Uno dúos tres cuatro.
Then, with the next storm, I surface again.
The cycle repeats:
reefs / stomach / salt / you / celestial / mines / sharp impact / rock-elbows / pines / I’m gone.
For some reason, this autumn I crave more than ever to sit on your lap.
To sit in a chair on some wooden terrace wrapped in grapevines.
To drink tea from the same cup
and feel how my collarbones fit perfectly beneath the curve of your fingers.
How my cheekbones extend the lines of your temples.
How my breasts nest perfectly into the shape of your palms.
To watch how our hair tangles in the wind like stage curtains,
behind which my lips continue the line of your lips.
This only happens once every million years —
when two hunters of tenderness meet.
I take a running start and fall into you with immense force,
straight from the sky, like the first drops of rain,
and you, like warm steaming earth, catch me
and greedily drink me in.
Together we exist in a space of pure gravity,
dizzied by tenderness,
ears popping like on a plane.
And then, at a million thousand meters above sea level,
in a zone of heightened turbulence,
we extract tenderness from the celestial mines.
We stuff our pockets with it and carry it in our bare hands,
inhale it into our lungs along with oxygen,
unable to get enough.
Tenderness, desperately wanted and wanted for.
My cheekbones continue the line of your temples.
You’ll text me that you miss me
when you step out to buy bread.
And I’ll come out barefoot to meet you.
uno the bread will be hot and fierce, like you, like the earth, like the sun.
dúos it will be summer, and the rain will begin.
tres the scratches from the salt will burn on my knees and stomach.
cuatro and every time, I’ll crash even harder.