Number 14

I rushed back home on the willpower of a couple of tired legs. The steaming lights of the club were hitching my yellow eyes.
Did you know?
I rushed back home because people were distracting me, Nigel Farage does not have the colour of your eyes.
Did you know that?
I rushed back home in a cold empty night, ignoring the monsters on my bed, collapsing on the sofa, crumpling under the blanket, leaving the light on so that I can project you sitting on the armrest.
I rushed back home because you were presumptuously filling all my actions with your imaginary presence, I was moving stiff picturing you next to me, and so I precipitated in my calm orange vanilla room in order for you to have the space you need, the space you have, inside me.

Number 9

Through a whisper
the yellow Monday
promises eternity

Through its tears
the scarlet Tuesday
salutes the sunset

Through a soired
the blue Thursday
kneels on the Sunday

At the time when the troubles has settled
under your skin
into your veins
when the head bursts of love
and collapse into a swirly farewell

Waiting for the Monday again
to swallow my memoirs
of a troubled soul
which I failed to grip hard enough
on my dry chest.