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.

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.

You will stay put, I know.
Even if I want you to go,
even if I ask you, beg you
to leave. I know you will
be hiding behind the door,
waiting for me to get back.
I know you will never leave,
because there are forces
we cannot control, we can't.
And you will love me, and hold me
in different ways, choking
the life out of me. I know.
You will **** me, silently
under the starts. And I know
there's nobody here, but you are.
In darkness and in light,
your sadistic little arms
around my neck, in a song.
You will stay, I know. Because
I command you to love me
tight as a noose, to appear
in my dreams, to sprout from
my head, to cut my eyes.
You will stay and look like her,
because I created you
in her image. I created you,
ghost.

I don't believe in tomorrow,
with it's sameness and it's sadness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in yesterday,
with it's longness and it's mockery,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunrise,
with it's promises and it's storm clouds,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunset,
with it's loveliness and it's loneliness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sea,
with it's indecision and it's vastness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the universe,
with it's mystery and it's immensity,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in memories,
with their vagueness and their insistence,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in hope,
with it's randomness and it's deception,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in poetry,
in the lines of my face and of my hand,
in the stars and the gods,
in the guitar and my voice,
in my smile and my frown,
in love, in feelings,
in doors and pictures.

I don't believe in me. I don't,
but they all do. All of them.
And all of them expect answers
and reasons that I cannot give,
that I don't know. I don't know.

I will look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
I will notice how late I come,
how old is my love, how old.
And I will look at the clock again
and will leave and you'll stay.
And the sea will also stay and I
will look at the clock again
and you'll stay with the day,
and tomorrow will be today,
and you'll stay and I'll be gone.
But if I'd come earlier I wouldn't
have find you either,
have loved you either,
have need you either.
I wouldn't have what?
I wouldn't need a sword
to cut time in half.

I'll look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
he will smile, mockingly.
All the same, I will look.

I don't feel like it anymore, I must say.
Maybe I should put up a missing person
alert for my inner kid. He must be hiding
somewhere, I hope wherever that is i'ts not
a dark place, he was always afraid of it.
Maybe that is what I've loose, I think I must
come to terms with it. It's that time
of the year already, when it's to late
for everything. To say hello and goodbye,
is this real, is it not,
no turning back, no way to run,
one eye blue and the other red,
one ear open and the other closed,
one hand reaching out and the other
clenched in a fist behind my back,
one sweet word and many a bitter silence.
Handshakes and kisses, folks.
Telescopes and microscopes,
is all about points of view.

Handshakes and kisses, folks.
I am what I am, nothing more than
the continuation of an idea.

What have we done today?
Have you loved,
have you grow tall,
have you follow that trail of stars,
take everything,
give something.

I'm afraid that we've done the same,
it all looks the same,
at times I only stare at other people
while they stare back.
We are patchworks,
we are the lovers that could not be
and it's alright.

It's alright to be that, the sea.

It's alright to be
the rubble, the dust.
The dark moon under the eyes
because we walked alone back home,
because again we weren't able to read
between the lines of our silence
and love still remains unknown.
It's alright. It's also beautiful,
to be the turned-off firefly.

How do I know the devil is not
in my words?
Talking with my mouth,
listening with my ears,
using my shaky fingers
to touch your body.
How do I know he is not
laughing at me.
I don't know.

How do I know God is not
fighting a war
over my soul.
How do I know he is not
the silence between words,
the meaning between lines,
the space between skin and skin.
I don't know.

I hope they both have better things to do
than daydreaming.

Suddenly, I turned 40.
I'm not saying that it neccesarly
took me all that time to get there.
It was quicker than that, a matter of days.
You know time, that miserable *******
likes a good LOL as much as the next guy.
And I'm not even 40 yet.
**** me, right!

The trill of the violin's note
extends like a grim kiss asking
me to remember. The devil's
music in a photograph. How happy
the trees look amongst the ruins
of the past.

How much space it has traveled,
The light that escaped from us?
Or did it never left the earth
and it is repeating itself.
Us, like ghosts behind the walls.

You know, it's been
a dim colored world, the future
unfolding as I dare to take
another breath. You must be
loving, I hope. Otherwise,
it is madness, what a waste of pain.

Perhaps your many faces
will never leave, but I feel
like I can grin and bare it.
Maybe that's all there is now,
the living memory of yet
another impossible flower.

In a great sea of unknown,
what does it mean that
shadows are all around
trying to grab light
from each other.
The hands are tied
behind all their backs
but they act the same
like they are saved.
Words can do that.
Like doors, until you open them
nothing exists behind,
like the cat in the box.
Werner would be proud of me.

A moment, time that extends over
the horizon like an infinite second.
Today, past, and present, all choices
becoming one mashed up in timelessness,
and there are those who act like
it never happened, negating the miracle
innumerable times.

What it would come down to for us?
Fear can hold you. That leaves us here,
now, like this, denying the existence
of that flicker when our eyes met.

And how will they be living, our other selves,
in the alternate reality that was created then.
Will they be happier?