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.

Number 18

I don’t eat –
my shapes
are the year party
she didn’t attend

Galloping on the high wind
I long for eternity

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 5

Salty lips
in a salty soul
As you talk
they blame you
Give them a blast
a jump on your wave
A draught across the ears
a lovely bone in the hair
And finally a pillow to rest their hands
while they’re pointing
at you.