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-
You were there plenty
And quietly,
You were not enough of.
I haven’t noticed the exact,
Precise moment

Silly me!

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

Number 21

Melting words,
longing arms –
wrap now my waist,
squeeze me
with your care.
I am riding
the glass line
of the Equator.

Pour me wine,
let me clean
the corner of your chest,
you did not bring
any armor today.

Turn my face,
approach my lobe,
suck out
the thoughts of you
I fail to conceal.

My forehead staining the window:
pointing at
patchy meadows,
smeared clouds,
rolling mountain ranges.

Still, I am overjoyed:
my mind on the prelude
this is
to us.

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 15

Me and coffee have the most stereotypical love relationship ever. I do love it, although it is suffered love, the one of the kind you keep on being stuck with even if it does not love you back.

What does that mean? That I need it. My body calls for it; even if I am already shacking and my blood veins are shrinking themselves down to almost disappear, it needs just a drowsy face to my brain to believe that yes, I need more caffeine, no matter if I will end up feeling I am having heart attack for good 30 seconds – I will feel great anyhow afterwards for having survived.

I crave it. Better say I used to crave it so much that now I don’t want to let it go anymore. I do remember vacations in Calabria calling watermelon with funny names and expecting it to appear anyway on my plate; and then asking for cappuccino, getting extremely pissed off when my mother winked at the waiter whispering “Just a drop of coffee, please”. I must have been 7 years old and being in my latency stage, and so reclaiming things that I didn’t know – maybe I didn’t – that would do me no good.

It’s my reassurance. Part of a routine, so to say. Waking up zombie like in the morning and knowing that it is there – until my neurons are fast enough to make me remember where to find the yellow packet and my arms strong enough to unlock the coffee machine. Embracing me every single day, no matter how bad, sad, mean, I have been the day before, it keeps all the things the same – fire-brown liquid-cup-throat.

It is part of a routine then, that I try to shake, rekindle. For example, sometimes I only go for black coffee. Other times I disguise it with a drop of cream milk – yes, I do live in a northern European country – other times I shock it with the surprisingly good combination – works properly only if the coffee is superhot– of honey, certain periods I like to create a sandy-like bottom layer of – preferably – brown sugar in the cup. Shakes resembling a frustrated wife buying naughty underwear in the expensive shop to surprise her partner at night.

So yes, me and coffee have the silliest, most stereotypical relationship ever. My mom used to tell me about relationships, “The most important thing is that you like him and that he makes you feel good”. And I am over there, I guess.

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 


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


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, 



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.