I live so close to pain
sometimes I wonder
if I would feel
any better
without it

The sky will run out of stars
after we’ll have left our bikes by the wall
and walked the night
to the summit of a hill.
After we’ll have heard the terrible clamour
so dramatically silent
of what I thought would be the last nuclear fusion,
I’ll tell you about my fear that the sky
above us
like a mile of desert
dead before the dawn
will remain black
not pierced by a single light.

Convince me
they won’t end, the words
that I can use to tell you about the future
to let you know my kiss was honest
what I meant.
Convince me
they won’t end, the mines of gold
now full with dust and ground
from where I pick the only chords I know on my guitar
so I can sing to you
wherever we might be
about a walk through the darkest night
with analog eyes
and maximum exposure time,
two wool-like gloves
intertwined
and two mouths happily moving.  

We’ll go back to our bikes by the wall,
and, beautiful,
pointing your finger to above
you’ll laugh

I told you
that the sky
wouldn’t run out of stars.

You remind me
of the scent of bubblegum
sweet in your eyes
brief in your sentences
you won’t let me have
what I expected

rather
you whisper at me
(laughing like a kid)
that to your right
my left
a space so remote
distant from where I sit
(at least inside my mind)
some soul stopped by.

“He reminds me
of the smell of bubblegum”.

I see shutters shut
behind my window
frosted at the edges
and chimneys without smoke
flaccid shingles balance on unstable rooftops
it’s for a miracle on Earth
ugly bricks hang to their shame
and moss is dark
for it stopped holding on to life.
I see puddles of stagnant regret
some light
as warm as honey
slightly
could colour up this circumstance
without making it any better,
slightly
perhaps it’s calmer when it’s dark.  

Suddenly
the intercom rings
I open the doors of my chest,
turning the key of my pride:
it is you.
Inside me
shutters open
my eyes defrost at their edges
chimneys’ smoke pulsates with life
and all shingles are now sorted
moss is green and clings to life
trying not to spire
the warmth of your presence’s dried out every puddle
and some light
just as honey
colours up this circumstance
it makes it
a nice day.

You exercise stillness
all naked
lay out your crossed legs
and your face now satisfied
– be serious! –
for you recognise
the flamboyance of your beauty.

I will try
with shaky hands
and fast heart-beats
hidden before my jelly ribs
to crystallise a moment
from the fluidity of time
that skims us
I will then burn it onto our new, old dark paper
and I can assure you
that it will take me at least one week
to develop it.

You will be asking for it eager and impatient
like when, eyes wide open
at 4am
one waits for the sky
to trade its colours
with the ones of the sea

but you will stop anticipating
as soon as I’ll remind you
how long I had to wait
to take
your photograph.

I dream we stand
wrist beside wrist
confess before a wall of withered red bricks
happy faces pass by
heavy shadows follow
stretched by the tall street lamps
that illuminate us
with their sympathetic gaze.

I detest my sentences
like puddles drops of oil,
you adore your dissertations
bright tulips among a green flock of grey
and you know well how to choose your words.

You, who won't drink,
I,
inebriated by your words
soot on ice,
kiss you sincerely.

I dream