I know the river runs dry after it has fallen asleep.
Death is not our alliance, life is.
So, between my arms,
you emerge like a hand,
and the way to celebrate it is to embrace you,
with long kisses on your cheeks,
because your heart is a garden of illumination,
plated with violets and lavenders.

I love you,
is this a mistake,
is this a myth,
hear me,
as I am announcing your place in my heart,
here, inside of me,
there is a different ocean expressing itself,
with good intentions,
with beauty,
and delicate breath and tenderness,
and quietly how you touch me with your hand,
your hand that does not,
deprive me of pleasure,
but gives me a sense of worth,
and what shall I give you now,
is it myself,
is it the mirror of my existence?

All my life,
I have felt the nearest joy,
when I feel for the first time,
this hidden interest,
the emotions I can no longer touch,
in the slightest hint,
in moments that are reminiscing,
this gentle and sad face of mine,
in the lively tone of your voice,
in the surge of memories,
that anticipate all the love I can give for you,
I remain true to myself,
I remain lively and loud,
vivid to sense that what life can offer me,
is the quiet correspondence of affection,
your subtlety, your buoyant character,
knowing that I secretly love you.

There is nothing truly more repetitive ,
or usual or strange to me,
except for the fact that I may see you personally,
hold you closer to me,
feel you as the wind feel the warmth of a star,
I want that moment,
I want you to understand this,
I want you to gaze me like a rounded apple,
to bite or not to bite me.

You must know that what might break us,
will break us open,
but my love for you is interconnected in loops,
in the vibrant strings of the wind,
in the sweet percussion of sunlight’s ray,
I am only reserved to the promise,
which I always endeared and take hold for you,
that we are fulfilled with our own intimacy,
and between us,
no one can ever touch this sleeping landscape of skin,
no one can love you as much as I do,
is it not so precious,
elegant and swarming with delight,
for such the man in me,
obeys the principles of warmth,
the humid elements of your breath.

Again,
there is an indication,
of tenderness between us,
it is like a pillow resting your head,
the onset of the new moon,
as is, that you and me repeats for its need,
rustling like a wing,
for once more,
you continually swarm me with your love,
your love that opens,
the wilderness of my heart,
and if your eyes are the only thing,
that sees me: habitually pleasing,
alluring in all familiar ways,
precedent and preferable,
and if it beckons to shape whatever,
we thrive for,
if it is longing or constant admiration,
you are favored to me my capricious one,
leave no traces or red kisses,
for I will miss you in every mild footsteps,
of the rain filling the earth,
with your warm welcome.

For the passing day,
the day mends,
the day follows the unison movement,
of your silhouette,
this consumable force you ****** in me,
are you my amorous joy,
a gliding dew that tickles the corner of my lips,
or the steady architecture of the anthill,
in its demarcation to defy the limits of love,
to bring the spirit of solitude,
the transcendence of our youth,
can it be for a moment or eternity,
that I am totally dissolved,
transforming your pain,
into red and yellow flowers,
the colorful penumbra of the rainbow,
and what does it give you: all of me.

I sense that,
I have a great deal to give:
my eyes, my lips, my body,
it is all there is for you to consume,
I want your arms with me,
the stars along the hills,
how dreamily I fog my gaze somewhere else,
just to listen to you talking,
desiring to hold you,
and this eagerness,
to come live where you are,
to ascend,
the unconditional movements of my heart,
flowing in your body,
like a dear fire in an open space,
like grains of sand kissing your skin,
like a flower sitting on your ears,
like a song taming your lips,
ah, just to nestle myself with you,
and into my naked hands,
I bring you the transparent serenity,
the blue sky in its untrammeled thought.

Each time,
I look at you,
may it be your face,
your lips,
your eyes,
or your shadow,
leaning against the tree,
I know,
I just know,
that this life,
is more than its circulation,
how long is eternity,
to be able to let you know,
how every thing becomes a little gift,
a grace uplifted from the heavens.

It is so nice to come home to a person,
who has been there all along.
It is so nice to have been cared by a warm hand,
by a heart that feels so tender,
like a pillow resting on my head.
Sometimes, a home is not a structure, it is a person.
Sometimes, you live inside a person.
Sometimes, she lives inside you.
Sometimes, she is outside looking in.

You do not know,
what it means to me,
to be true,
to be just by myself,
taking this moment,
in the pursuit of loving you,
with all that I am–
with all the inherent nature of necessity,
as it beckons to proceed to my willingness,
or to be thrilled,
even to be summoned particularly,
with your most intimate self:
the degree of closeness.

One day it will come at your feet,
like the brush of a wave in the sea,
one day you will realise,
the life you have created,
the air you breathe through your lungs.
You will stumble upon,
a certain voice saying,
this is your life, and now, this is you,
these are the memories you share,
and long for some time.
One day, you will contain all of these,
when you finally see,
you cannot simply replace them,
but taking these recollections,
one by one, through the other,
and somehow, you will be grateful,
that you are here,
and there will be no other person just like you.

Is there ever a way to faint your heart,
or by simple means of gesture,
you will contain me,
the way how the earth is fed by the rain,
the way how a seagull flies,
with its flamboyant weight,
the way how exactly I am reduced to pieces,
like a grain of salt, the pebbles from the river,
or the pigments of a pollen,
I so far do not come this way to be uttered,
by words or symbols to create a certain story,
I come this way,
to let you know how much I love you.

I have made it for my self, made it through, or if I am mistaken, it is a relative coincidence within the constructs of my personal tenet. Is this air, the symbolism of breath, is this the fire that I happen to touch in your body, is this sorrow that a willow leans on the ground to see her reflection in the river, is this what it means to live, to sink into deep  and shallow waters, to tally its admonitions, or it happens to be there already and I am not understanding the language, the proverbial sum of love and loss, my longings, my mysteries and incisive idealism?

If you can only pertain,
or retrieve your sincere delicateness,
my love, with you,
for the rest of time,
everything revolves around us,
swarms and adjoins together,
loose yet holding,
and there again a bright star,
is a sign of our existence,
under its lowly light,
our shadows touch,
and here like hope,
like a cordial bow of a blue mannequin,
I bring my love to you:
kind, persistent, naked like an alabaster jar.

Now, if you consciously seek me in prayer,
fold your hands and knees,
kneel with sympathy and stillness,
for there is movement in faith,
there is a banquet,
in the hearts that calls for wisdom,
and in the eyes of God,
I can see the great space,
a pebble resembling courage and hope,
I can see the doves,
I can see the mountains,
I can see the shining surface,
of love that is instilled in you,
and this love is a deep prolongation,
and today, I confess:
I am moved, I am happy,
I am happy that I found you.

“I believe in life, the formation of the day, to the lining of the sea and sky. I believe that love and loss has boundaries, that the moment of separation does not truly turn the heart sour. I believe the migration of birds to be the beginning of spring. I believe in the disentwining of our hands until it withers. I believe in the creases of the sea and the palpitation of stars. I believe in last breath and its reincarnation. I believe in healing as well as the occurrence of joy, for this is what I am going to be, in a mirroring succession, you and I, oh just you and I respectively.”

All I wanted to say is this:
when I open myself like a wave,
or close my hands,
like a tentacular stem of a tree,
I am sensual of this love,
I am reminiscent as a candlelight:
my love bear with me,
for the real objects are not hidden,
in the soft caricature of the rising sun,
or by a descended hearing,
fluttering vision, starving touch,
but be it simply a recurring impulse or need,
clearing the pathways of my affection,
precious and remote, damp and cerebral.

I personally believe,
it is the past that keeps on resurfacing,
but I am not quite conclusive enough,
to partake with these thoughts,
though somehow I am driven,
to be graceful upon my consent,
and I will rather choose being the one,
who is opt to lose this emotional event,
whether to love or in hopes,
that I can proceed further to my passions,
the virtues of my routine,
and cultivating my sense of self,
independent of my surroundings,
to create a bond of self-love.

“To have loved you,
and wound myself:
heaven only knows why
I have succumbed to this emptiness,
darling, you have killed me by loving you– seconds, minutes, hours and lifetime.”