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.
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.
You were there plenty
You were not enough of.
I haven’t noticed the exact,
As you unfolded,
When I was looking elsewhere,
When I wasn’t ready
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.