The tip of my fingers
beat restlessly on the table
the way an apprehensive fist
knocks on a locked door.

My back touched the fabric
of the couch
as I slouched and tilted my head.

I let my elbow fell on the armchair
as my thumb flew between my lips
and my teeth perched on its flesh.

My forefinger
ran back and forth, restlessly,
on my nose bridge

as I inhaled the details
of your head thrown backward,
your hair suspended in midair.

some strands draping down your chest,
your mouth half open,
your secret self and your entire being

all seducing my peripheral vision.

If I were to conquer an arena in fiction writing,
it would be the field of morbidity.

Say,
human hearts strewn on the floor,
with spiders trailing on its artiries
while the entire room is screaming at you to run.

So still
I can almost hear
the hands of the clock
painfully fading

and your footfalls,
between us,
slowly stretching away.

Just to let you know,
I will not be here
in case you trail back.

Moving on also exists in my vocabulary.

Says the bird
restless on the stem
perching on her wrist.

Is sitting on the bench
while forever stretches
on the road dividing you
and her.

Gloom covered your face
as you held the remaining strands
of your little doll
pressed to your chest.

I wonder if it hears your heart beating.

The muscles of your jaw tighten
your fist clenched on the tip
of the skirt of that rag around the waist,
covered in sand.

Are those lies piling on your plate?

Arms flailing, limped like stretched promises
subject for renewal
displayed on the rusty railings
of overpriced prisons
and underpriced confinements overthere

overlooking the slums,
the displaced,
the violent, barbaric, filthy slaves
over here.

If I may inquire,
Are you one of those people flooding the street,
making the world go round
and red and red and red?