When I let my hand climb, in each place I find a dove that was looking for me, as if my love, they had made you of clay for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, 
your breasts,
your waist,
are missing in me,
like in the hollow of a
thirsting earth
where they relinquished a
form,
and together we are
complete like one singel river,
like one single grain of sand.