I can’t sleep. Sometimes I write when this happens. It used to be from myself to my own sheets of paper, but that has gone wrong too. My mind can only write about you now, I can’t think about something else than yourself.

The paper has become your legs. The words come right out from your red, perfect lips. Sentences build up right from your hips.

Things are never written down as they should, it’s pretty much alike when I try to say “I love you” with my tongue all over your body.

Your eyes remind me that no matter how much or what I write it’s never going to be enough to describe the kind of feelings, the kind of images you bring. I have to write. I feel like I’m not good at it anymore. You, my notebook, you have overwhelmed my capacity of expression.

Not even this words are coming out as they should, right now while I type nonsensly, I think, I wonder, is he ever going to read this how I want him to?


I feel cold every colon, every period. They indicate it’s been long since I died when you kissed me.

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

How could I tell, well:
            your stitches are sewn by money,
            the hair you possess falls as if honey,
            your tall cappuccino, three-extra-shots, is mixed with cinnamon,
            don’t get me wrong, you look lovely, but please floss,
            homemade bread is not attractive when lodged in pink, smoker’s gums,
            does your Father know you smoke
            or is choking fun?
            Cancer cannot be undone like your lower than normal blouse,
            so button up and stop with the arousing, ‘cos
            everyone here is doing work not listening
            to your fabulous conversation about Billy and Meg,
            cosy in the thought of love, playground love.

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

i heard there are a thousand ways
to greet your body;
twenty one keep me up at night.
i don't know if i'm happy or sad
when i think of your skin.
its warm tone is the brightest star
in my universe, and i'm stuck
orbiting around it,
surviving off its rays.

i can't want you more.

when we last kissed,
over a thousand days ago,
something was taken from us,
locked up in a safe
we both have keys to.
maybe it's grown--
maybe larger than we can hold.

i can't love you more.

i've forgotten how you taste,
and that's a sin,
and i've forgotten
your glance, too.
don't be a stranger;
we're already so strange,
wanting to lap each other up,
but holding our jaws shut tight.

i can't stand it anymore.

i'm here for you,
with you, by you, inside of you.
i'd lie here naked for you,
but it's too cold
to sleep here alone,
exposed.