Ossídio Gaspar

Threaded Fingers

In my loneliness I love and I hate

And love will not console me

I always hate everything that does.


A hand is not the touch of another

Like a kiss that rivers a distance

Because we are born one at a time.


Make it beautiful because why else

Choose beauty because it is

And then lose it to no attention.


Towards the edge weakness grows

Where heat patterns are exchanged

It was only loss of contact that made the contact.


I choose to bring the leftovers home

I palm them in my nest of opposites

Ungrateful, they keep me awake.