Counting Breaths

I have run up the stairs my breaths have begun to count themselves I am standing now behind the door. Turn your eyes, at last, toward the door. Drops of sweat from among my hair roll down onto my temples. My salty eyelids have grown moist. My eyes are raining I tremble like the leaf of a wild chamomile in the far meadow under rain upon rain. Turn your eyes now toward the door! toward the bewitched door without an opening. I was right here, never apart from you centuries and centuries with the start of every breath up the slippery spiral stairs I ran with a basket of chamomile flowers in my arms, in my tears. My breath is counting itself. I press my ear to the steel door a distant sound comes, passes through the steel: it is the sound of your breathing never apart from me my love. You are! I am!....