Through the skin of an ink


June 2018


I effuse into the

voice of your breath,

not only in words,

not only in sighs.

I dissolve

upon your pores

like an ink,

(a milk gone blue)

melting out

of a broken stylograph,

like a livid stain,

like a clumsy sentence.


I turn towards a butterfly,

jumping along her flight

and you think that She

drags me away from you;

me, drying in shame upon your remark

I am losing my blueness,

I succeed notto show to you

(to draw to you)

the awakening

of Psyche[i]through Cupid,

their instantaneous,

painful, ‘convulsive’[ii]



Then, I try to wash my knees,

to vanish inside the lake,

to dissolve soundlessly,

like a pollen through the wind,

not to bring weight upon you,

like the murmur of the leaves


the fusion of our palms.


And yet, I resent inside myself,

rebelling against my apathy,

my shameful

dirty fragility,

my brazen cowardice?!

How easy it is to lose the axis,

the structure of physical presence!

My lightness becomes

your burden built by silences.


I fondle the stones around us,

striving to build a column out of me,

strong enough

to hold our fragile pergola;

and yet, how can I possibly acknowledge

the speech of the surrounding ivories,

birds, cells, body partitions?


You are rising

like a solid rock

with a mathematically precise irregularity

towards the roofs of your closed future.

I am falling along your ascent

like a waterfall

with a feminine noise,

lithe as the Wind

trembling between the two of us.


This wind sculpts

a living Home

for birds, fishes,

butterflies, ivories,

and we remain windfully

to build an ever-changing cave

with disproportionately carved rooms;

me-pouring a cold love upon you,

caressing you by drizzling,

by flowing;

you-keeping stillness, bitterly,

like a steep porous stone,

soaked by a water canopy.


Ljubljanski Grad, 7.6.2018

[i]Cupid Playing With A Butterfly. Antoine-Denis Chaudet, 1763, Paris.

  Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. Antonio Canova, 1787, Paris.

[ii]‘The beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all’. Andre Breton, Nadja, 1928, Paris.


Viktorija Bogdanova