Black mirror, black mirror
everybody believes you are me
ever since the war, they know
a mechanical butterfly
can't move it's wings
by sheer will.
The baby tiger in captivity
turns into a cat,
back and forth and again,
with the mystery and sadness
of a crumpled paper than none
will ever read. Take it all,
the time, the sky,
the habit of downward spiraling,
there is a certain discipline
required to scale yourself
down so you can fit your arms
around a giant.
With my back towards it,
I have discovered that ignorance
is not always bliss,
only less awkward.
Black mirror also lies,
his optical illusions are only
phantom words and fire,
whichever comes first.
And he can also be a prism.

What do I know about you, really?
For certain, only a few things.
Nothing about pictures or loves,
about the ghosts in your heart,
or something as simple as your cigarrette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can never reach.

We can die laughing, that's true
and that is important for someone
who doesn't laugh enough. As I.

If I told you that I wouldn't mind to know
what make your eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket,
would you shred my ears to pieces?

If I confessed that I hang on your words
like a thrilled coward, that I have died many times,
would you fell silent?

These are the kind of questions
someone who doesn't know have.

I accept that I also keep people in the dark.
Flying blind, they must think "here goes nothing",
while they yearn for the ground. Have I done that to you?

If I was to fling myself onto you, for that matter,
absurd as the notion sounds, would you flinch away
and ask me to give my head a shake?

I know we are getting into the realm of imposible things,
of things that can blow in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
Of the few things I know, one is this:
you told me you are dark chocolate.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
One thing I know and I tell you now,
your are sweeter than that.

Today I feel like a snail
who took forty years
to cross a road to find
that the other side was
the same.  And you don't
want to deal with the rage
of a tired snail.
It is sad to find yours is
such an unglamorous totem.

Tomorrow I will feel
like an old philosopher.
I might even go as far
as to offer advise
(tiresome and languid),
and will talk about my
great and epic drift
through the great gray dessert.
And you will say,
here's a wise man,
without knowing that
everything was a mistake.
That it still is.

I warn you, I can change
expressions, seamlessly.
Remember this, cats can't
smile, they can laugh or
destroy it's world,
with the furious sorrow
and as slowly
as a tired mollusk.
And they will try.

It was the time, those minutes
with which an hour begins,
an afternoon begins,
a season begins.
It was that time, that day.
The time of arriving on time,
with no delay, just as them,
those who arrive uninvited
and without an appointment.
That is, it was the coincidence
of being lost in the right place
and at the right time.

We were both lost in those hours,
days and seasons, in that bed
where we found about each other
that we're not used to be late
nor to leave on time. That is,
we were not lost, not at first at least,
but then we got lost together,
and we began to believe in fate.

Oh love, you come in a better disguise
this time. Let me tell you now that
you've improved both in loveliness
and in material impossibility.
For all I'm concerned, this has been
your finest hour, which coincides
with my weakest and darkest,
not related to your coming (you insist),
but I know better. And even when I know
what you'll do, I was hoping to see you
again. And this is already going wrong.
For those of us who, foolishly, are still
looking for the happily ever after,
it is always a walk in the park under
gray skies and falling leaves to have you
back, love. There will always be a space
for you to fill in this heart. If only
you could stay still for a second.

But wait a second; no, not you.
Wait a second longer; yes, me.
Weren't you just about to fall sleep?
Wait a second. You're not loosing her.
Hold the tear in, close your eyes and
drift away. There she'll be too,
in the dream, waiting in a better disguise.
And this time it'll maybe be real.

Us, being strangers as we are,
it is expected that we remain separated
by the unkindness of our eyes
when we cannot comprehend
nor grasp, how could we, that we both
like black coffee. In that sense,
we are only separated by the sound
of our voices taking the first step
and that, my dear, is the greatest
and the shortest distance
between two hearts that could be one
but will probably not.

What time is it? Are you coming
late? Are you coming at all?
I've been waiting for you.

I was mistaken, you were coming
not towards me but only
moving in my general direction.

Look at you, how you pass with your
young confidence, overflowing
and ready to drift away.

You will never know about the waste,
you created it. You are the one who
leave the sunken ships, burning.