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 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 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?".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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!