Number 16

Forget this city,
feel amazing
try always
to kill it

but slow,
don’t panic
act perfectly,
humbly tremble
silently admire
the grand, the empty
the crowd

and if you stare the sun,
brimful of sparkles
stinging your skin,
wounding,
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?

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Number 15

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.

Number 14

Wondering night,
candy room
my body,
its function
this moon

I lose,
I’m mad
angry me,
all me
big game,
– between
high woman,
her wine
close tears,
late time
bite stuff,
eat nice
drool grief,
now smile.

Number 13

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

of memories

bad moves

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

blue

 

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.

 

 

 

Number 11

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.

Number 10

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 

my willpower 

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 

forever,

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 

to me 

when encircling the fences 

of my breast.
I opened my wounds to you, 

my love, 

when your eyes,

your silence,

your tremor,

your hands,

they showed me 

the path to your wounds.

But you know

I refused, I left that book

closed,

and so did you with mine,

because why declaiming 

that poems of the past 

with sorrow

when we can cheerfully sing 

new hymns

to this limited, 

abundant  

present?

Number 11

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.