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

Only I didn't really fall in love
when I saw you, it was gradual.
In terms of absence, that is, one day
I suddenly noticed you were not there
(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?".

Trying to beat the heart in the head. I am
trying to find the place I left, that I loose,
when I sat out to come and find myself.
Blame it all on me, it's a natural conclusion.

Felt good, heard fine, while I was going,
it felt so easy and quick, lines where crossed.
To be a broken somebody, somebody else,
more than you care and less than you know.

The girl that I knew under the trees
has also left and in her flight she took
the gift and the time, the love song,
the moon the boy was looking in her eyes.

And I don't know if I can do it anymore,
go back out through the windows, back to
the milky swirl of stars, again start.
I don't wanna talk about it but I'm saying it.

Overall, this is about everything and it's not.
This is not a sad face, a broken poem, a peakhole
into and angry soul, if you can understand,
the words are carefully arranged.

I'm fine thank you, and you? How much time,
tell me, do you think you can stay, I'll sleep
in you. You are, some say, the monster under my bed,
you are, i'd say, the reason I can breath.

I'm doing it again, materializing, I am
halfway there to cross another window. This is it,
I wanna talk about it but I'm not saying it,
would you meet me halfway there?

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.

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.

I would like to be home by midnight.

She paused, no longer so sure about the fit
of that crystal slipper on my hairy foot.

Not to worry, my dear. Just make sure to close
the closet door when you leave.

Hear us out, we are the losers.
We didn't want it all but just
a little more,  
from the mirrors without wrinkles,
from the afternoon 'till death,
from the doors without locks,
from the catdog people in the street,
and from ourselves, at least

from these shadows without bodies,
from these houses without ghosts,
from these minds without forgetfulness,
from these mountains without a fall,
from this silence without voices,
and from you who told us that we were wrong.

And that people is still out there,
and that people is distracted,
and that people is also living,
and that people is melting like snow,
and that people is building promises,
and that people is burning in the sun,
and that people...

Hear us out. We are those who got
the short end of the stick but still
go through the motions of living,
dancing away the life to death.

What's the matter, are you afraid?
Help yourself from my words,
take a deep breath and
deduce from the above
if you are one of us.

The truth is that I will hardly ever be
as funny as the one who makes you laugh,
nor as sweet as the one who makes you awww,
and not even as strong as the one whose shoulder
you choose to lean your head on.
I mean, I am all those things in my mind,
and when you are not looking my way,
but I guess those fictions aren't seductive enough,
hardly for anyone or for anything.

But my most serious fault is, I know,
that I have you waiting for a punchline
that will not come. I can feel
the weight of the bad joke, believe me.

I'm still waiting for the punchline too.
I got old waiting for it.

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.

The beast that needs to be tamed lives
within yourself. All the other despair
is smog being blown away by the invisible
mouths of those who, with cries and silence,
are trying to breath and move around
under water, trying to think which was
that one turn that brought them here
and started the person that became.

All these right-and-wrongs that are said
and also those who remain silent,
all these intentions toward a saved life,
and all these doors that are being opened
and closed, are so much like the efforts
of a writer creating a character for
a book that will be finished on a deathbed
and surrounded by teary-eyed beasts in human skin.

I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Crooked,
ghost houses.
Mad houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
Pet cemeteries.
Monuments
to unknown soldiers.

But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.

Usually, not even that.
Only rubble.
Only silence.

I know my mirror is broken, I know.
As long as the ocean keeps coming back
and it's blue, it's like you were here.
And I can feel you and be blown
by the wind, and be brought back,
and be tossed around. What a tiny
vision, I know, trying to save yourself
from yourself. And the future bleeds.
I know I'm wrong, I know I am.

When I try to go out, -but you try.
When I try to turn white.
I like to imagine you
looking at the back of my head,
collecting flying leaves,
sitting inside the empty end of time,
transformation, like a butterfly
bursting the bubble, just reaching out
and grabbing trees, and sins, and this is
your way of saying I wont be around,
probably, I wont.

Dear me, I became aware so suddenly
that a self fulfilling prophecy is like
a cloudless sky and it gets you down.
That there is no empty space left
in the darkness, and it gets you down.
Who can say how much prettier you will look
tomorrow, distracted, playing your part,
learning how the flapping of your wings
affect the world around you; who is to know
if you are going to rule this out
as a superstition of a heart.

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.

There is no one around.
No one betting the life over a dream,
no one over there at the races, chasing tails,
and no one at the dock watching the ships sail
while the sun drowns in the horizon.
No one around is looking at you leaving
today, and waiting for a comeback.

Standing beside the tombs, insane,
still, and finally grabbing one last piece of sanity
from the silence of my bones.

Now, there is no one here, only the trees over,
the earth all around, and my words,
waiting for the next presence of life.

And this life is someone else's, is
insanity's nearness when everyone answers,
all the voices at the same time,
everybody's truth crushing yours,
all the love, and the hatred, a lightning and a thunder,
voices speaking, voices asking,
all the words that you must hear.

Walk toward my grave, and around, and over,
and if you dare lay down with me, let me
embrace the tender of your skin.

Now, nobody but you and me, for a moment,
before I return to dust and memories,
and before you go back to your future.

Go back to it, before you lose your legs, or all
your will or, even worse, before you decide to stay.
There are no more apples for you, I don’t own
your past, only my memories, like you own yours.
Our words might be alike but their meaning lies
inside, deep, within each throat, unspoken,
unspeakable and unreachable.

Choke on my words, I will drown in yours,
the tip of my fingers scraping from below,
reaching for your flowery hands.

Now, I possess myself, you have your breath of life,
make my silence your home, for a brief moment,
dig until you graze my fleshless name.

Call it, if nobody answers it’s me, answering
from everybody's mouths, with all the voices.
To hear my words you only need to sit quiet over me.
It’s lonely, it’s tomorrow as you haven’t yet imagined it,
prepare for me, repent if you want, it’s indifferent,
I’ll be answering you anyway, I’m already
loving the world empty of us.

I still want so much more of you, to rob you,
**** your every last strength, until you see
with my eyes, amazed by the beauty.

Can this be the truth? This is the land I promise,
the only promised land a defeated god can dream of,
and can give as a wedding gift.

It’s my world, ordinary. Yours is much luminous,
and brighter, once you open your eyes,
and break through the nightmare, and go out
to find that everybody is waiting, living like you,
good times rolling, high above the trash,
getting together at the races, and at the dock
to see the ships, and the sun emerging triumphant.

One night you dreamt, it was a bad one,
only that, about a grave, silent words calling,
and the sound of hands digging up, reaching for you.

Believe in it, in the dream, but also in you,
as I’ve believed in me, and for a moment,
almost scraped the surface of heaven.

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 cigarette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can't 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?

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 up in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
I tell you now, your are sweeter than
that dark chocolate you like so much.

Hear us out, we are the losers.
We didn't want it all but just
a little more,  
from the mirrors without wrinkles,
from the afternoon 'till death,
from the doors without locks,
from the catdog people in the street,
and from ourselves, at least

from these shadows without bodies,
from these houses without ghosts,
from these minds without forgetfulness,
from these mountains without a fall,
from this silence without voices,
and from you who told us that we were wrong.

And that people is still out there,
and that people is distracted,
and that people is also living,
and that people is melting like snow,
and that people is building promises,
and that people is burning in the sun,
and that people...

Hear us out. We are those who got
the short end of the stick but still
go through the motions of living,
dancing away the life to death.

What's the matter, are you afraid?
Help yourself from my words,
take a deep breath and
deduce from the above
if you are one of us.

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!

I don't know what to do with it all,
the flowers, the elephant and the
ruins under my feet.
The long and brooding presence.

It is clear that I haven't come to grips
with this upsidedown world. I shouln't have
saved all these goodbyes (at the end, all die
and their ghosts will never leave you).

I saw you floating today and I found
how hard it is to scream underwater.

It's very easy to **** an ant. However, I'll never be able to get to the brink of an abyss and just continue. Walking down the vertical wall like it's nothing.

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.

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?

Life is short
like a dream,
like juvenile fit of laughter
flying away from the lips.

Short and dumb.
Full of invitations,
insinuations, and desire.
It is a short wealth
of blood and pleasure
beating in the veins.
It is growing bliss
and bountiful pain.

Silence,
cyclical time,
will.

It is the pursue of love
and to continue,
persistent,
until you behold
the abyss.

Life is short
like a dream
and death is long
as an awakening.

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.

A man walks home at night,
alone as a mountaintop.
He created himself that way.
He has been lifting himself,
for a long time now, above
all heads, all hearts, himself.
From his loftiness, he dominates
his world from a kind of open
prison, where he can be seen
but not reached.

The
forces
he used
to create his
absurd altitud
are not clear. Some
might even think that
it's useless to live like
this, connected but removed,
always in motion, away from it all.

But it is a mistake.

If you want to reach him
there is a stair, steep
and grim. And you might think
"I will be brave, he is but a fool
looking into -and afraid- of the abyss
he created himself". And if you dare,
and you finally reach the first step,
you will find him waiting to guide you
around, into and accross. You see,
this man that walks home at night,
as alone as a mountaintop, knows
that nobody escapes from the sunrise,
that some happiness is strange,
and that the only real tragedy
is to have taken all this time,
to have accumulated grain upon grain,
melting the sand in the crucible
of his heart, to create this bluff
looking into world, and have noone
to share the view with.

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.

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.

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.

This is going wrong, the words
are choking the air out, day in
and day out my presence
grows thinner until my name is
something to brush off from your shoulder.

The sun is going down so many times a day,
have you ever have that feeling?
Seeing your eyes is like wading
into my failed dreams. What am I suppose to do
with your presence so absent of me?

Those seemingly unrelated matters of life
are suddenly connected by the same sadness:
my inability to close my eyes to your figure.
Just when you thought you knew yourself
love harkens you back to ignorance.

The heart always forgets what the head remember
and you get back knocking on the door that wont open.

This is going to be a poem without an ending
because I need you to read it and understand
what I feel. A proper ending, that is.

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.
Hand shakes and kisses, folks.
Telescopes and microscopes,
is all about points of view.

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

Destiny is a miserable creature
with a mouthful of sharp teeth
hiding behind a smile, yours.
Yes, you. Unsuspecting.
With a bit of happiness hiding
behind that adorable smile.
If only it would bite.

As I said, miserable
and cruel creature.
All this blood wasted,
turning into vinegar.
It burns.

When you appear and everything else falls quiet
there's only one voice left, mine, from bellow,
from the forgotten memory in the chest.
A fallen memory, it laughs and I always fall asleep.
Always. You aren't there either. You are
and you are not.

Magic trick 1 : I can pull elephants out
from a hat (even against your will).

Magic trick 2: amazing flowers grow,
invisible (even against my will).

Maybe I'll like myself one day, someday,
and that will be another magic trick.
The last one.

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.

What do you do if you get off the bed
and find that you haven´t finished
dreaming of the sea?

The problem with this dream is that
there´s always more sea to sink
than islands to be a castaway.

You are going to get tired of swimming, eventually.
Mayhaps you will come out alive of this,
or maybe it´s time to learn how to be a fish.

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.

Tales of what will happen next,
in the streets, in the heads,
in the cigarette buts, and in the red
flowers. Is better not to know
what we really are. Life's easier
when you don't know where
the sadder songs come from.

If I were to try to fly, I would need a rather high place to jump from. I know I'll never fly, not really, but I can play pretend while I drop to my certain death.

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.

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.

You are very human after all;
when it comes down to it, you
also like the music of bottles,
and of friends, lost, lost, the faces
facing the night, leaving souls,
living grose, grose. Very human,
getting your **** together before sunrise,
and losing your soul through the day,
eternal soldier, ready for a second helping.
Ok, time’s up!

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.

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?".

I don't know you, said I
while attached to my back the old me,
like a siamese twin, withered,
drained of meaning by the image
of this new self I'm supposed to be.

I swear by this mirror that I don't know you.
I repeated the lie smiling awkwardly,
every terrified silabe like the footsteps
of things moving in an empty room.

Have you ever tried it?
If you bang on about it you might end
playing rock, paper and scissors with yourself.

He always tries to wake up with the alarm
buy his eyes usually come early or late
to that date too.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
but only the doubts are reflected, like
watching dirt on snow.

He goes out, smiles with broken teeth
and waves limbless greetings. As versatile
as a possessed doll.

Everybody says he is a normal example of human.
Maybe he is, coming and going without getting
to where he wants to be.

Then he faces her. Contrasting his life choices
with her smile, he realizes that they
brought him there.

He stops at the pet shop window to look at the puppies.

He goes back thinking that in only
50 more easy payments he'll be able to claim back
his heart's past from the pawnbroker.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
before getting to bed, but he notices that
he forgot to bring himself back. And also coffee.

It doesn't matter, he thinks while he waits
for sleep to come. The pawnbroker is
an allegory on letting go.

The life of a guy without coffee
is like getting the short half of
the wishbone, every time.

In a sea of rain what you'll get is wetness.
You are no going to get out all dry and cozy
Here comes the rest of the night.

I will come back into the light,
slowly, changing skin
and voice to match complexion
and glare.

But my days of fire are gone,
long and sufficiently away.
It's clear that one must swallow
before chocking.

I will swiftly go back,
there, darkness is kind enough
and only requires silence.

For ever and ever, just for one day.
The shadows will be heroes,
standing by all things. Someone
will finally recognize them for
their infinite and unconditional love,
for never loosing control while facing
the cruelty of those who cast them.

To make my shadow proud of me.
If I could only do that, if only I
could convince myself that she is.

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.

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.

It's Sunday, that I know. Also that
the new year will start on the same day
as the new week will, it seems appropriate.
Not that that would make any difference,
we will get confused anyway.
With all the promises in the air,
like the tiny ghosts of unborn
children that will bring laughter
into our lives, supposedly.
That is, unless you are old enough
as to not to promise anything anymore,
we are very much aware that the first person
that will get disappointed will be ourselves.

All of those who will be coming back home
tomorrow, to fight for what we think
is best for us, all of us who will be starting
the year with ash running out from our hands,
still sentimentally moved by the same songs,
old dogs trying to learn new tricks
but failing miserably, as we let time
run out. We all will be there.

Maybe the me from five years ago will no longer
recognize himself. He will be here to,
confused, afraid, and looking into the future.

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.

Unfaithful, renegade, unbelonging.
Like a cat staying where the food is.
But the guard dog also keeps quiet when fed.

Maybe cats and dogs are not so different.
After all, hearts are children
who look for what they desire.

Is this the face of beauty?
The hand went behind the back
and crossed fingers. The shadow
mimicked the gesture and the
face of beauty was reconstructed
based on mere will. But the myistery
remains, is this it?

Maybe this is only the face of love.