The impossibility of being less

a personal, slightly emotional poem awaiting some critique.

Morning
like a resonance box in which we embrace
with the impossibility of being less
of making room for the other

we could have lost some spirals
and the cramped time
might not be found
in every corner

the hands are shaped like windows
on one side and the other
drops of blood admiring themselves
through the crack of the curtain

yet there are filiform suns
burning our veins
and rain hitting retinas
without us blinking of dark

cling your back to my cry
opened like a biopsy of solitude
only a few spirals
at least
we won't be as whole