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.

I wasn't myself at all, this year.
Or maybe I should say that I was me
as much as I could. Look into my
mental health trough my words.

We foresee ourselves as the resolved version
of an unsolvable mathematical problem.
I see a picture of me, alongside other people,
and feel like I´m a photoshopped image,
which is pretty much how I feel most of the time.

I like to think of it
as a philosophical matter,
nothing else. Psychologists,
refrain from commenting.
Otherwise, I imagine myself
giving you the finger.

I also need to mention
that the new ghost is growing
healthy and laughing, behind
the door where it can jump
on my shoulders the minute
I walk in.

On the bright side, someone said
I´m weird but interesting.
The inflection was on the term "weird".
***** it, I´ll take that any day!
Even if it´s only a small battle
that will not win any war.

The problem with this autobiographical poems
is that I never know how to finish'em
and I sense there´s also meaning in this.
With the above being said, I guess I´m still
the same, and that is ******* frightening.

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 wreckage
you create. You are the one who
leave the sunken ships, burning.

Give me bricks, give me mortar,
and give me space to build my wall
higher, high enough to reach
the stars, the empty space,
because this is not high enough.
I want the higher wall a man
has ever built, it is needed.

Yesterday, I looked over it
and I saw you, and you saw me,
and we saw each other, and you
talked about the weather, and about
trivial things. You talked,
so beautiful and unaware,
and I listened and understood
how much I've missed you, that
and that my wall needs an upgrade.

I understand it, a wall will
protect and isolate he who builds it.
Fear and love, bricks and mortar.
This is going to be a high wall, indeed.

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.

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.

Separation is not only a matter of distance but also of purpose and will.

Recurrent dreams are to man
what pikes are to the bull.
It angers you that they remain dreams
and there is no good promise
at the end of the night.

Human passions are, more often than I'd like, passions of inhumanity.

I've found myself looking at your empty chair.
Your cats and mine are also staring, they also
search beyond the glass line of the horizon
that extends forbiddingly close, a limit
that is at the same time boundary and edge.

Did you know glass is neither a solid nor a liquid?
An amorphous solid, they call it.
It has to do with painstakingly slow moving atoms.
I like this quote: "it would take longer than the universe
has existed for room-temperature glass to rearrange itself
to appear melted."

But going back to your empty chair,
I sometimes feel like if I look to close
I'm going tho pass through my own image
and when I'm finally done crossing
you will be staring back towards my empty chair.

Did you know there is no such thing as a dark side of the moon?
Tidal locking, they call it.
It is kind of an interminable dance, gaze locking.
We see the same face, until you cross that is,
you will find there's sun on the other side alright.
But that's still a great album, if you ask me.

What will happen once we are on the same side, if ever?
I don't know, but I will tell you what we'll have.

We'll have three cats,
some broken glass to pick up,
unknown seas and valleys to explore,
and two empty chairs.

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.

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.

It was all clear. At least for now.
When you ceased to be a stranger
in this strange world of pipe dreams,
the act of repeating your name
changed from absurdity to mantra.
Heartwarming and sad,
the naivety of it all.

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.

So, I discovered that she do likes poetry.
Only she likes other poetry, not mine.
And it is not that I need her to like
what I write per se (I mostly don't like
what I write myself), is that she don't like
what I write about her. And that is critical.
Because love is also an artistic impresion
and we only like the art that affects us.

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 don´t care about ying and yang. Needless to say that ying and yang feels the same way about me.

I can't believe I believe this crap
of "this is a new day". But to believe
is not the same as to know. What I know is
that tonight I'll be telling myself
that this was, after all, the same
day
without
you.

You could have been mine, instead
you choose to be yours. Bless you,
in the name of an uncertain god.
In all your wisdom, you choose to be true
to the one person that matters: yourself.

There is no greater distance than the one that separates two bodies that occupies the same space.

Love is a heart shaped balloon with a label that reads
"blow up until it burst into something".

Keep it down, heart. Low and weak,
falling short of standards. Pretend
to be here when you are there.
Keep it under the table,
up the wall and casting a shadow
on oneself, a long and broad one
like an overcast sky.

Step on toes, heart. The wild is here
and it is taking time and silence.
Borrowing time and silence to rub off on.
Time and silence because everything
looks better on hindsight.
Lots and lots of time and silence
make everything look good in the end.

But don't talk, heart. Talk is cheap,
talk is *****. Remember that in one's mind's eye
the house of cards will never collapse.
Slip away, heart. Off. Between the bodies
there is silence and glass. A pearl of wisdom
for you: you will cover just as much space
keeping on the road as going astray.

Break the illusion of carrying water in one hand
and fire in the other. Wouldn't that be awesome though!

I doubt you understand my silence,
otherwise, there wouldn't be one.