almost forgotten languages ​​on the surface of a stone

 
I spent the night with my fingers buried
on some keys, damn typewriter,
they don't speak my language.

I have an old alphabet and you probably
never seen a carrier pigeon...
I struggle with these meaningless words,
out of context, code words
that try to signify love, desire, oblivion.

What about the numbers?
Ah, those malevolent signifiers of time,
of space and how many fingers we have then,
on each hand, how many times they touch
every year of your time, every letter of your name...
Each phase of the moon.

I believe I left, indelibly,
fingerprints on all photographs
that there was of you in an album
of half-eaten yellowed paper
by some unidentified extraterrestrial beings.