The summer sun is warm
and fragrant on my skin
and I'm the happiest I've ever been
right before the first time
you leave me.

The second time,
the cold is sharp and ruthless
and tastes like emptiness
and I saw it coming
days, maybe weeks in advance.

Neither time is better than the other,
but then again,
neither one is worse,
like comparing death by fire
to death by falling from a height;
death is death
and the time to dwell on it
is the true meaning of hell.

There won't be a third time.

I say this every time
our song comes on the radio
or
I see your favorite flower
or
someone happens to wear
your fragrance of choice.

What are the odds, d'you think?
If I tattoo it on my wrist
THERE WON'T BE A THIRD TIME
and I write it on every flat surface I own
THERE
WILL
NOT
BE
A
THIRD
TIME
which is more likely:
you kiss me and I push you away
or
a piano falls on my head?

I'm hoping for a piano, honestly.

At least then I can imagine
the last time you leave me
is at my wake
and this time
this time
you cry.

Kiss me like if this night was the last night.

Night, last night you could see beyond my eyes.

Eyes, beyond my eyes there is this lonely girl.

Girl, lonely girl wondering who could listen to her.

Kiss her thru this last night beyond her eyes.

           Lonely girl just listen to her.

You were always gone,
I was always wrong.
I'm happy to know now that you were just another one.
And I'm the only one of your another's that now is gone.
Next..

Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.

People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.

When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.

Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston

Face lift up to the sky
Waiting for the the first drop of rain to purify my body
From all the dirt of the crowd that causes so much pain
That I don't feel my skin again.

Exact temperature my pores needed
to feel the exact sensation of relief
hairs straight and hard
so hard that would brush all the leaves in the ground.

Drops of water,
come to me.
Drops of water,
my skin is thirsty cant you see?

A layer of second skin comes off
taking years of corrupted experiences take it away rough
there is a desperation inside that is screaming regrets and too much self careless.

Im afraid that would not be enough for you
to purify this damaged body.
But I have hope
that you will make me feel a little better with your drops of water
I beg come to me.
Drops of water
I miss the tenderness that it used to be.