Refulgence – a radiant or resplendent quality or state

She had to come across town.

She had to walk out her door, pass by the sport shop she once bought some stupid protein powder, she needed to mirror herself in a window full of jewellery, cross the road in fear of the homeless man yelling at his dragging feet. She had to listen to four songs for fifteen minutes and ten seconds, the last word being “you”, the last piece so pleasing yet versatile to deserve a place in her 2020, Karaoke beasts, and Running playlists.

She needed to feel dizzy and stop for a soda from the conveniece store. She had to prefer the zebra over the underpass. She had to stop on a bench in the park even if her uncompromising workout scheme could not allow that.

But she needed to be there.

Over, under.

Looking up, towards the sun filtering through the leaves of the same, yet different, tones of green. A single ray escaped that flexible gate, landing over her naked arm.

So much light.

Evident. Secret.

Who wanted to witness that amount of flesh? Surely, not her.

She strived. She bit her lips, immagining blood flooding out of them, the amount of matter she desired to get rid of.

She had her eyes closed. The roaring cars in the background, the sweeping dead leaves, her saliva descending her throat.

Then, she had not moved.

Number 22

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder how long is far!
Has your light be stolen or what,
Whilst my eyelids down they shut?

Tinkle, crinkle, little star,
Shake that dust off your scars,
Have they ever, ever yelled at you,
"Who am I talking to?!"

Whittle, sprinkle, little star,
Sow the pledges of a racing car,
Of a marriage that finally ends,
Of a show that never commences.

Tremble, brittle, little star,
Don't fall now, stay where you are,
It's your light I cannot bear,
All my skin of you is aware.

Now pause your whims, little star
I swear, this time
I'll pause mine,
And to this night again
I'll sleep just fine.








At the fastest pace

Superficial magazines, poorly distributed
Evenly, around the moulded bench
Headlines about anything different,
And nothing that was about to happen.

I was encountering my nightmares
And they were hands I could shake,
The validation of a pair of eyes
The same colour of the shadow swallowing them.

Scraping the bottom of one barrel,
The print on a shirt I imagined to tear up,
Dressed by the lady I didn’t want to be friends with.
The lips were numb against the wind
– and the cold,
and the silence.

I yelled at you,
As you were the only face to see.
But mine were the legs that wandered at the fastest pace,
Finally surrendering at the perimeters of a seat.

And again I waited,
Tracing the rituals of my curse,
For the heartbeat to pass and for you to be back,
To return to the nightmares.

Quite yet, yet it disappeared

Would there ever be 
Ever, not soon
Enough plasticity of the mind
Allowing one – me – to figure out
Each one of the weapons?
I believed it firmly,
It felt no harm,
It carried no shame.
I could have battled
Many more million years.
And yet-
Quietly,
You were there plenty
And quietly,
You were not enough of.
I haven’t noticed the exact,
Precise moment

Silly me!

As you unfolded,
Waned
When I was looking elsewhere,
When I wasn’t ready
Quite yet.

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.