i wouldn't cross the streets until you hold my hand

*(or what love is...)

an opening
that could never be filled-

or a scream
that no one could ever spoke-

or my own space
occupied
by the utterly other-

or a circle of violence
in tranquil ruin-

or the possible return
of the truth that resides
in the event that passes-

in sum

of that emptiness that speaks-

the possibility of waiting without hope.