a wet street is not similiar to rain
but it's a sign that it has rained
fever's not flu
but it's a sign
i woke up with my hands soaked in wine
and begging you two things:
1- excess
2- not going home
can we have only first dates where we can always be
anyone else?
can we exchange habits?
close my eyes between your legs
i love burnt bread, black coffee and butter
and swimming through time towards time
like in a midnight carless highway
fever's not flu;
it's desire's errands
it's a trip you tell no one
it's a page or a screen.
it's a sign,
how would you describe it?

is there something stranger than kindness?

i woke up with an idea in my tongue:
let's play a song that remind us of us.
let's call it a quest.

my dear, my darling one.
it started out as an apology
and ended up as a misty and sweet
winter garden.

what do fireflies sing in the dark?
your skin crash landed on my skin,
a bottle of gin and two tons
of self driven fingertips and all-ins.

nothing never really mattered
nothing never feels new
never any different.

i thought i knew better
-i thought i was really sorry-
i thought i knew bitter.

this is my dream, but if you don't like it
i have better ones.
buy me some.
i'm just building a house a brick per day.
somehow.

it's been a long time.
that's why they call it No-Leather-Shoes-Holiday.
take these before we run away.
kind of empty by the way.

in Argentina
the name for *******
is
“la bombacha”

but with the accent
of Che
it leaves the lips
“Bom-ba-ja”

and it sounds as sweet
as they
look
on thin
brown hips