Fix me a dream where we are,
I know you can. Just one dream
where we are, nothing more.

I'm coming empty handed, how
can we fill that space?
That space that is unopened door,
unread book, uncalled name;
and how can we call it?
Bubble,
flight,
fall,
empty glass,
or even sea, or a name
that cannot be pronounced.

Fix it, while I stand outside,
gathering the flowers
that will die
in your hands

so I don't come
empty handed after all.

Millions of specs of dust fly
on the single ray of light that
comes in through the window.
Everything is changing, even them.

Them, who used to be other things,
skin,
and words,
and strangers,
and blindness,
and eyes,
sleep,
tragedy,
love,
and thougths that crack the skull,
all the things together,
hints,
flowers,
and fiction,
and for one brief moment
happiness.

That you are the one I reenact
the love scenes from movies
in my head, is that so terrible?
And that is to become dust too,
without you even knowing,
and will be blown away.

What is a soft touch for a rock?
You would be surprised, my friend.
Except us, rocks. What is
a soft touch for a human?

It depends on the human
and it depends on the rock.

Destiny is a miserable creature
with a mouthful of sharp teeth
hiding behind your smile.
Yes, you. Unsuspecting.
With a bit of happiness hiding
behind your adorable smile.

If only it would bite.
As I said, miserable,
cruel creature.
All this blood wasted,
turning into vinegar.
It burns.

Get over it! We will never catch her
singing along our tiny song. Nor borrowing
words from the silence to put them
and trow them on a glance over the room
toward our corner. Enough is enough,
this music is not one that she will play along,
the violin note is too long, the bowl
of fire not enough to get her belly warm.
Take a hint, get over it, and away, and off, and back.
Your words will not lift her off her feet,
yours is not the love that will make her levitate.

This is the last drink, says the drunk, I wont.
And it is the hundredth time he has lied to himself.
We know we are in trouble.
We look at ourselves taller than we are,
fairier, younger, stronger.
But we are, in fact, small, soaking wet, cold
and, for the love of God, this **** cigarette
wont stay lit.

She don't sees us, man. What are you talking about?
Those words does not have secret meaning.
Can't you see? Only because you go into the sea
doesn't meant that you are going to find your siren.

Get over it. We will never catch her!
Not the way she has our sorry little ***.
She has better plans for tonight. And for tomorrow.
For better or for worst. Get over it.

I saw you. I fell in love.
A bit of a cliche,
but such is life.

Only I didn't fell in love
when I saw you. It was gradual.
In terms of absence. One day,
I suddenly noticed you were not there
(that is, I was able to distinguish  
how empty the world was without you in it).

This arrow flew a long time,
which only means that it hit
with grater strength.

You see, this is not love on a whim.
When I see you I don't think "I fell",
rather I flap my arms, taste the fear,
and think "Why the hell I don't stop falling?".

My heart could be out getting yours.
Should be.

But superstition is what kills love.
And I'm not.

I mustn't be the music that you hear.
The lights.

I ask myself if flying also means falling.
Eyes closed.

Silence is a never ending statement.
All in vain.

While I watch you passing by the sun.
Outshined.

And you are also the moon, invisible.
Can't reach.

I undress better with words, completely.
All the leafs.

Protected by an untouched bubble.
Like a kiss.

Memories can also be driven by fear.
And the future.

I'm always found by dawn, when I'm an angel.
Maskless.

My heart could be out getting yours.
You know?

Every birth is pain, violence, and love.
Even light.

Every new love is and empty handed heart.
Until you go out.

You are inside the dream, behind the glass.
And you smile.

A No is better than a lie, you know?
You know?

When is the right time to shoot one's bolt?
Never was.

Is the mirage in the eye or in the mind?
Oh, but it is.

My heart could have been out getting yours.
It is lost.