We Made This Poem Together

We made this poem together,
do you remember?
I read you a few lines from Octavio Paz,
something about your body
being the trace of your body,
and you said it was one of the saddest poems
you had ever heard.
When I asked you why
you told me,
it reminded you of the distance
that so often came between us,
and when I said I knew what you meant,
you asked me suddenly,
'How?'
'Because it reminds me of when I wake up
and you're no longer there,
and I can feel the space beside me
where you're supposed to be'
'Your body is the trace of your body'
rolling the words in your mouth,
like delicate honey,
'your body is the trace of your body...'
'The trace of a mountain
in the shape of the sea',
because improvisation always was my strong point,
and you asked me who had written the words,
because you enjoyed saying them
out loud so much,
and I answered, that while I could take no credit
for the first few lines,
mountains in the shape of the sea,
on the other hand,
was me,
and you smiled and took my hand
and told me to put the two together,
and when I became confused, you took your words
and gently showed me how,
'On the other hand your body
is the trace of the sea'
leaving my other hand free,
to roam through the endless traces
of your invisible body,
'My hand...'
'And your hand...'
'Is one hand plus one hand...'
'Is two hands?'
I smiled slowly and shook my head,
'You're hand, plus my hand,
is beams of light blowing,
through the gaps between
our fingers'
And as you drew your head closer
to the curve of my lonely breast,
and buried your hair deeper
inside the dent of my aching heart,
your hand,
plus my hand,
suddenly became two hands,
the trace of a mountain
in the shape of the sea,
shivering like a star.