I am not an orchard. I am not Summer. My tears do not resemble rain. The sun is not in my pupil. You have no right to love me as one loves the fantasy of an inaccessible world. He stays silent. PERSEPHONE I am weak, I cry salt, and my eyes are abyssal; you are weak, you cry salt, and your eyes are darkness; you, and me, and them, and the world is terribly human, terribly monotonous. I will never bring to you the beauty of June fields, the smell of ripe apricots and wild berries. I will not be able to exhale the friskiness of the mountain stream on your tongue. I cannot give you the world
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