a.

As if you weren't the gravity of the waves of my body, responsible for the betrayals of my vocal cords, for the nest of curls that rest on your monument. Me, who listens beneath the marble to your heartbeat, the sign, the proof that, mortal as I am, you came down to my hill, leaving behind the curling, colored clouds. For me.

You say: 'you're mine,' when I was already hanging among the greenish wool of your irises. When I was already evaporating next to the smoke of your dying cigarette. When you laugh, when you pray to your thoughts, when you sigh and look into the distance.

When you say my name.

I've been yours since your lips parted and let out the first vowel, and then the tip of your tongue sharpens behind your teeth; the mouth closes again, holding the sound, and exhales the last syllable lazily, like an afterthought.