The Parchment of the Heart

Paper is skin, passionate and thirsty,
Frozen in an open absence.
In the veins, a pulse beats, words burn,
But the fingers feel: this plane is alive.

I touch the canvas cautiously,
I feel a tremor, sharp and anxious.
This is not a leaf – but a radiant abyss,
Where every movement is pure and pious.

The pen – an exposed nerve – bites into the flesh,
Leaving black scars for memory.
This tart pain cannot be overcome –
It grows through the parchment in lines.

We beat in one mad rhythm,
Drinking between us both confession and guilt.
As long as the sheet is a living labyrinth,
I walk with the blood of meaning into its depths.