the box.

why must you 

tell us,

we, who do not

care, about

this love between

you and

him, handsomer

than the sons

of cool nights

and warm days,

her, prettier

than clear drops

of morning

dew resting,

breathing,

dainty and quaint,

like paintings

that are moving

when you look

closer,

why must you

show us

such an obscene

blank page

with words

of love

that really

is not love?

you, who has 

lived

for far too long

in the same year,

you, who has

faith

in things inconstant

and weak of will,

you, who see

only one face

of this square

box:

do not touch

nor lift

this surface hiding

many, many more

or regret will

be yours,

and your love

reveal itself

to be the 25th hour

of the day

behind yesterday,

which steps closer

while you 

are still so, 

so blind.