Forget this city,
to kill it
the grand, the empty
and if you stare the sun,
brimful of sparkles
stinging your skin,
forgetting previous pain,
let them stag you,
skewer of memories
and if it’s sunny,
you can do everything
and if it’s sunny,
and there’s a patch to sit on
isn’t it just great?
I chase you memory every night, my love
this bottle helping me recalling
the way your lips curve nearby my skin,
the way your voice tickle my lobes,
the way your chest inflate under my hand.
And when the moon chases me,
– under the spotlight
I raise up my sight,
and her, from that distance
she can reflect it too
the love I would, every night
give to you.
You are the season that keeps me awake
The endemic smile sewn on this sun
this nippy sun
Finding myself awake from a painful sleep
how many do we still consume together?
You are the restless conversation
the finger sliding on the brim
when my sight is halted
the eyes that are not observing
digging in a shallow
You are the trip, the plane, the train
The car with no fuel
The road with no sign
You are the rainy day when my map is not plasticized
The extra charge on my dinner bill
You are the short blanket, the cat that doesn’t purr, the host with no wine
You keep me sitting at the edge of this chair
While holding my hand firmly
Like you would do with a kite
You are afraid to see fly away.
Lying on the hollow of your neck
leading the way to the scar
running through your back, it ends
at my fingertip coming
at the night, brittle night
broken with the promises
you don’t dare to make
you forgot you told.
I opened my wounds to you, my love,
when you sat in the darkness
on the brim
of what we were allowed to,
when you started sliding
and my needs
like an automatic door,
when I thought,
on that dwindling motion,
that I could have bath
my lips of that salty water
when you tumulted the valley
of my bowels
with your finger,
when you stole the pulse of my breath climbing up my stomach,
and you gave it back
when encircling the fences
of my breast.
I opened my wounds to you,
when your eyes,
they showed me
the path to your wounds.
But you know
I refused, I left that book
and so did you with mine,
because why declaiming
that poems of the past
when we can cheerfully sing
to this limited,
Sometimes your odor comes to me.
Hitting me, punching my nostrils,
lasting for a blessed crumble of time
on the wings of a butterfly’s day.
I would love to keep it forever,
covering it under my skin,
under those goose pumps I have when I think about
the squared profile of your nose
descending, diving, into
the sugarly curves of your lips.
Sometimes your absence strikes me at the point
I perceive your hand crossed in mine
while following these crooked paths,
tight enough to not let you depart
together with the bruned leaves.
But I know, such a bittersweet understanding
of this memory,
and still a century I have to live
before my collar bone
will hold your breath again.