Lo Que Me Dice Tu Boca

If I don't paint you pretty
it's not because I don't love you,
because if I paint you the same
it's the same as eight as eighty,
that with you
the math never adds up.

Loving you so much
would hurt me so much more:
neither my life is what it was,
nor am I the owner of my days,
but I would die
if you left.

You can't leave me,
that I don't paint anything anymore
and, like a drooling fool,
cry for you in the corners,
like a child shedding
tears of India ink.

Not all of the Brooklyn Bridge,
the Londons and Parises,
that nothing tells me anymore
like what your mouth tells me
and the imprint of your lips
on my glass.

However I look at you,
I see you as I think of you.
Who doesn't think of you naked
under the right light
and your clothes on the canvas
of the moon?

Not that you leave completely,
nor that you stay forever,
nor that I go out and you come in:
I want to rest on your skin
and leave this carnation
on your belly.

Let them take away what I've painted!
Who wants me to prove it,
that all prehistoric art
and modern painting
are nothing compared
to your legs?