I remember the days when we were two stupid kids,
we were eating blackberries grown on tombs
and the moon was just a big stone
the sun was leaving its last breath on.

Now I am looking for you on the Wood street
where you last time smiled at me,
on the Wood street where people eat with their hands
the remains  of those burned by unhappiness,
while fools sing about love and dreams and the holes in their hearts.

I am looking for you
and I don't know whether you are a human or a dream
or the ash
that slips through my frozen fingers.

Maybe you are just the hole in my soul,
maybe the moon is more than a big stone,
maybe I loved you
maybe
you are still there somewhere
in the Sun's last breath.
Maybe it's just your smile
that has burned
covering my soul
my hands.

Our doubts are already forming a library
with thousands of books rising high above the wall

there are too many lights in this sky,
too concerned with the black emptiness that surrounds,

that they forget their soft glimmers,
the ones that stroke desolate grasses of backyards behind homes that shiver with the turn of a doorknob, and cry with the closing of that window in the upstairs bedroom

you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer

your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15

your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate

your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony

your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights  & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite

you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season,  and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.

Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.