and if one day
you decide to stop calling
i’ll still be leaving my phone
with the sound on
for the night

You still do to me
what spring does
with the cherry trees

you do it
in every season
my spring
all year long

Soft hush
a lilac hush,
spilling from heaven’s cufflinks.

Dust-throated wind,
draped in violet lace,
forgets how to whisper.

Once,
a petal kissed my wrist,
feather-light, sugar-spun.
(It melted before I could love it.)

Beneath the boughs
time folds like an origami swan.
A child presses footprints into fallen silk,
calls for lullabies.

Glittering
a secret only the butterflies know,
written in ultraviolet sighs.

Stay.
Stay.

But the season is shifting,
jacaranda knows no permanence.

A lilac hush
soft hush
dissolving into sky.

Give me your heart
And I’ll give you mine
Give me your heart
And I can see
Give me your heart
And it will be me

Long awaiting on shore

for mysterious nights,

that come to your doorstep,

holding a dandelion in their naked hand.

Light reflections of riverbed on the sleeves,

all the white candles that we bear without burning them,

as if we wouldn’t burn ourselves

on the threshold of an agonizing encounter

with desire itself.

But the brave one reverses the curse,

knows how to touch glaciers without melting them,

knows the nature of love affairs.
And in repose, glances at the face that holds immaculate grace,

without attaching it to their own possessions,

without possessing the heart of this face.

Adept of gentleness,
of mature patience.
The wise nights.

What a reckless bird,
Snitching the snow under the legs.
In the omnipresent blueness of this night,
Which is held by occult hands with
Long black nails,
In openwork lace.

And the sky has its eyes,
Chestnut curls spiraling glaciers,
Cut and chipped,
Onto our eyes as needles falling through,
Sewing the horizon.
As if poked, named papercards with the red thread,
During the conclave.

Stretched cardinals through the starry path,
Indicative of a new heart to arrive
On the prolonged, upside-down riverbed,
Provident messiah.
Will come as Minerva came through her father's head,
Fully grown, wearing golden armor.

Some things you just love,
and you love to love them:
prevalent fresh breath with a strawberry finish,
pleasant aldehydes.

Some looks just burn,
and, aflame, they guide you:
a corroded car on the highway,
where now fungi grow, nurturing a flower.

Some roads are detested,
and so, they face no suppression:
never saying hello to the acquaintance.

Some arms rise to the skies,
dreaming of affection.
Bubble gum blows into the palm of your hand.

Some hearts leave space
for opening and staying,
while other hearts hesitate,
knowing the price of paying.
Slightly opened doors have a habit of opening wider,
letting the cold in.

The owl of Minerva only flies at dusk,
and the stellar seed of the philosophical zoo,
on its final flight, is destined to **** history.

Meanwhile, in our nocturnal richness,
it’s the galloping through our phantasmagoria that we fear the most;
for the impossibility of motion in a dream stands as a gate to unreachable power.
So, we accept a little death, it seems,
as a gift of armor,
to start the journey of breaking through.

Alternative ways do exist,
but each leads to a singular outcome:
walk through the mirror fearlessly,
and in each death find eternity.

Dreams
are melting glaciers under my eyes,
when they first meet the sun
upon the dawn.
Tower of ivory, as cold, white hands—
yet soft.
don’t open them—
let them preserve
their enchanting form,
so my eyes shall keep all magic.
For a beautiful moment,
I want to stay in phantasmagoria;
for never, nor ever,
do I want to flee the dream room.

Let’s leave all flowers here alone.

our hands,
these are our hands holding a tender white bird,
an elegant creature of signal,
feathers of brighter times,
glances of loftier views—
ones that we, on land, must wait to understand,
with time, which stands far more mysterious;
time that crumbles and stretches,
dies without being born,
lives without comprehending its body.

The war for boundless and infinite satisfaction
happens to be the most complicated—
simply because we tend to understand only finite things.
But besides,
because we despise pain,
fighting to endure only pleasure,
which itself is the most bitter poison.
Living one day with eyes closed,
another without windows and doors.