You are that broken body in twilight, smelling of fire since it has never been tamed. You are the wind that blew through my defeated words and turned them into the wheat we gathered to put bread on the table tomorrow. You are the plea for the next kiss that invites the memory of the one before with the eyes of that dog who saved your caress/touch in his glance on a Sunday. You are the temptation of a precipice and an infinite garden, full of apple trees and elusive ends of a poem. You are the electricity of a Spanish August as night falls by the river and you wrap the red cardigan round your shoulders. You are a city with a drizzle in its syllables: my own Song of Songs.