While measuring the blueness of the sky,
the figs went stale.
You open your hands to grasp the last fresh ones—
like a prayer,
or a leaf in its senescence.

The heart constricts itself into a void,
like the death of a love
that arrives too late at your door.

Your forgetfulness has misplaced all your memories
somewhere in the house,
and, somewhere you end up—
without trying, but never in exile.

Our destined calm–
rusted wings of the butterfly
and freezing, slow passage of time.
You are the envelope in which lies my heart– a city of myth and ink.
You’re holding the pen.
There are dreamers like me,
for dreams like you.

Five mischievous little kittens
sitting on high chairs, waiting to drink milk.
The large blue bottle of
blue, blue milk spills over the table
–wasted blue milk.
A little indecision, but
all the kittens try to clean the mess they created.
The Sun sleeps at last, after a long, blue day. Sleep, my little one.
You can rest, too, now.