A spring like afternoon.
So,
I walked my thoughts
in the sun

and picked
here and there
a glance
of other-selves

(the ripest ones
decaying in fallen
houses, the left overs
of bygones and forget-me-nots).

Filled myself
in reddish and bluish,
a euphoric sight flying.
Then, my doorstep.

can’t speak about you in words but
in the heaviness of trees on unrelated stones
or all the things I didn’t chew
the worm of history froze silent
no axis mundi in my blood but
dysmorphic dreams
your rancid placenta

I can’t speak while
you spin around on streets smelling of flesh
and the layers of time squeeze all the screams of me

mother: the furthest language

When
night fades
a little before the springtime
and of a rarity
someone passes

a dark colour
of weeping
thickens over Paris

on a poem
of a bridge
I contemplate
the boundless silence
of a slender
girl

our
ills
flow together

and how, borne away,
she remains

vacuum.

a stop motion,
on senselessness
of expression.

suspension of self.
cryogenic life,
no cord to the inner core.

i miss a dream.
the one you are.