I’m waiting for you to be happy,
Because to make you happier
I need you to be happy first.
I’m waiting for you to have plenty of time
Because when you have just some
You don’t have time to plan that time.
I’m waiting for you to sing again
Not for me but next to me
And maybe then for me again.

And I’m waiting for flowers.
Or paper flowers.
Or hand drawn flowers.
Or “I cooked the dinner” flowers.
Or “I’m not giving you for granted” flowers.

I’m waiting for you to come back,
Because I’m not there,
And nor there are flowers.

Shall you not move, deaf and wordless

Being blamed because of stillness?

Or shall you go ahead, instead,

Carrying guilt for every step?

Or maybe buzzing all around,

a way not found, a place not found.

Till a saving killing hand clenches fingers on the sound

of the foolish fly it downed.

Now it’s over, now you rest,

with the bitter taste that lasts

when no balance can be asked (and no harmony forecasted)

between two different parts, if the first weights twice the last.

I’ll cover the walls of my room
With useless words
With question marks drawn
all over the ceiling.

I’ll cover with pages my heart
Finally silent this fist in my chest
Like paper kills rock,
We’ll die of my words that are yours.

I’ll cover the walls of my room
With all the untold
But now there’s no room on the walls,
Anymore.