I try to write but words keep getting entangled with my fragile veins : and instead of a letter, all that appears is a red-purple spot on my body. Your name is a thorn of a disappearing rose, lodged near my lungs, and each time I think about you, a vessel bursts somewhere deep inside. Now, it seems, my entire body is covered with petechiae : my love, you are bruising my insides, you are good for me.
Now all day I drink wine, only red, because I am running out of blood : my love, where do you think the red patent leather shoes get their colour from? The lipstick I wear, from which life it steals its tint? My dear, it was I who donated the rouge to Kieslowski. I, who spilled my red in all the wars, all the borders, all the partitions. And now, sitting here in the warm sunlight of Jaipur, all I can see is another spot. My love, you are bruising my insides. You are good for me.
So many lost loves, under the olive tree, so many lost sapphires: find the one stained with blood, the sapphire that looks most like a ruby.