That we are lost, Anlage, that I’m running out of a first breath and that when I get up, sometimes, I forget about you. That we have lost each other, Anlage, and that it is so true that in order to live I need to see you making love to me, and to give you two kisses on your back, while I let that this pain that I don’t understand produce me cramps in my legs and paralyze me. Our bed is narrow, fresh; the balcony has a view to the top of a tree that accommodates three black birds. That when I kiss you, Anlage, I give myself permission to feel your pain and mine, that the taste of this soured saliva puts my feet on the earth and faces me to a flavor unknown to me. Look at this, Anlage, now I am not able to write anything but streams of consciousness. I don’t know how to write, Anlage, I have lost the metaphors. I only know how to feel you breathing through the hair of my breasts, I can only imagine that the two of us love each other in a space where you are in peace with my love and I with yours, where I can love you and all the men in the world under the bridge where Telma died. That she was all that I wanted; that I lost her, that she is present only as a painting hanged on my wall, over my bed, the painting of the bird that wants to swallow the butterfly of my right eye. That I am getting out of breath, Anlage, and that in order to know if am virgin, Her, this new girl, asks me if acting feels like an orgasm, that She tells me that I have beautiful-eyes-and-earrings, and that because of that I wanted to give her one kiss and two. She outlandish, bizarre. Is she a woman? We could have almost lost Her, Anlage; I am getting out of breath. The birds are looking, I am ashamed. I have invited Her up. But first, I embrace you and see you caressing my eyelids. First I kiss you in my room. First, I embrace you. In my bed, Anlage, in my bed there is you, omnipresent in my inner room. The birds observe you, only they do. When She, the girl—is she a woman?—open this door, I would want her to find us caressing each other over my fiberglass table. When She open the door I will be out of breath. Kissing the pillow. Moaning backwards attempting a silence that hurts the throat, with you in my inner room. When She open the door She will find me lost in a kiss. And outside, fluttering, a few black feathers.