You know
that in less than a minute you will crash against the lamp post.
You know
that you should go easy on the accelerator.
You know
that all of your partner’s dreams will smash
against the windscreen,
that you will see her eyes, injected with black morphine,
just like cups of coffee spying on the gleam of sugar.
You know that you will swallow her hand, hanging on
to vacuum and onyx
you will see her
packing her bags
inside her wounds,
and you will see yourself,
running in circles because of the immobility,
you will scream the haemorrhages of deafness.
You know it,
but you’ll keep on towards the lamp post
as the rapist seeks the center of his wrath
and you will crash as the nothingness
ceases to be nothing.
There will be no sore throated sirens
or white coats frozen when existing;
because the worst thing about your accident is
that in love,
the only thing saved is


*title in English in the original.