And I know the world will be a much more beautiful place
when all the cosmonauts come together
and send a single transmission to everyone here:
"You're not alone".

Do you know how it is to walk the street very early in the morning? Just early enough to have the sunrise all for yourself for a couple of minutes? It's a pretty scary and sad feeling. Having all of that beauty and no one to share it with.

I wonder if that's what God felt after creating the universe; that sort of supernatural-scary-loneliness. Perhaps that's why he made us; not to feel alone. It'd sure make sense. I mean, if we are made in his image, then it's fine to assume he can feel alone too sometimes. Geez! the kind of things we can do when we feel alone.

Last night, I called a very old ex-girlfriend of mine. I didn't even wanna talk to her, I just wanted to hear her voice. Her kid answered the phone; she's got a kid now (Man, time does move too fast) We ended up talking about a little of nothing. We might drink coffee one of these days.

It sometimes seems to me that I'm partially living in the future; in the "one day". Don't get me wrong, it's better than living in the "remember when", but not as good as the "right now". What I'd give for some "now".

Back to loneliness. I saw two men in the park sharing a cigarette. They were arguing about something, one of them left and the other began to cry. Some of his smoke got in my eyes.

Later, I went with a friend to an auction house. He bought some  "collectible film prints". In one of them, there was a man with a cigarette crying.

Was the man in the print the same as the one in the park? Probably. It wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened.

I ended up buying the film print with the crying man from my friend. I keep it in the drawer next to my bed, along with some love poems and rejection letters. I try to look at it every morning. It's some "now" to hold onto.

I'm tired of love poems,
they stay behind
like stains of blood
after a ******.

It's all so strange to read them
after their inspiration is gone.
What are you supposed to do with them?
There's no place they belong to
after their inspiration is gone.
How are you supposed to move on from them?
Everything you write is about the time
after their inspiration is gone.

Are those tears in my pillow really mine?
or are they something I wrote before?
Can I say I'm truly in love?
or am I trying to burn my old love poems away?

The poems sit in a corner of my room
and my girlfriend can see them when we make love.
Is she thinking the same as I do?
I'm so afraid she does,
I'm so afraid she might go away
and leave me behind with nothing
but stains of love poems
on the floor.

10 billion galaxies in the universe,
an average of 100 billion stars in each one of those.
That’s 1 billion trillion (that’s a one and 21 zeroes) of stars in the known universe.
At least  10 percent of those may have at least 1 planet;
that is 100 trillion (that’s a hundred and 18 zeroes) of planets.
There might (“might”) be about 11 billion planets similar to ours,
of those, we concretely know of about 10 (ten. One one, one zero),
that number includes us,
and we only know there’s life in one of those 10,
us;
that is a percentage of 0.000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 001
of 100 trillion.

Well, ****.

Hey, little poetess
can you share a line with me?
My poem feels broken and empty
and I do believe you have what I need.

You have been swirling in my mind
ever since you came into the room
with your pale hands splattered with ink,
and your emerald eyes
which look as if they've seen a thousand nights,
and your soft voice
which takes me on a trip
to undiscovered places in my soul.

I'm ready to go anywhere
the smoke of your cigarette takes me.
My heart has been unknowingly still,
but you've shown me how its beating should feel.

How could I put pen to paper
before we ever met?

There's a girl somewhere in Mexico city
painting the world around  her
with the pigment of her heart.
You can find her by following the warm palette
she leaves behind in everyone she meets.

She's planning to start a revolution
one color at a time,
cause these gray days we have don't suit her.

She's sketching hope for the future
on the canvas of desolation
cause life is too short to sit and stare at the void.

Sometimes, when the darkness gets a little too heavy around here,
I think about her and everything gets a little clearer.

Sleeping on the back-seat of your car.
We dream of the inevitable loss
that haunts us.
We cry a little inside
with every kiss we share,
cause we know well
we're getting closer to the last one.

We're not naive;
all things go.
We're condemned to one day meet on a train
and struggle to remember
where have we seen such a beautiful face.
Even this dream won't be here tomorrow.

Pretty soon we'll be
pictures and letters
in a box,
in a closet,
gathering dust.
Ashes of flame.

We wake-up in shock,
we make love quietly
under the spring moon,
and we pretend
we've forgotten about our dream.

Perhaps if we do forget,
it won't come true,
perhaps we can last forever,
perhaps we can,
perhaps we,
perhaps.