You are the nostalgic
scent of autumn rain,
the earth beneath my feet,
the air I breathe and
I'm still standing here
trying to catch my breath
and my knuckles are all
bruised, just like my lungs.

A tornado lives inside my chest
and your touch is like an earthquake,
powerful and catastrophic.
Your mouth tastes like
serenity mixed with ferocity
and your clothes smell like
menthol cigarettes and coffe,
a smell I call home.

Your words are stones,
one time, you threw them at my head and all of a sudden,
I fell asleep.

I visited the world of
anesthesia, and I danced under
the starry sky, played with moon.

The world is a wonderful place.

It's 2am.

And I can't sleep.
A legend says that whenever you
can't sleep, a person dreams about you.

Stich up the wounds in
my mind.

It's 3am.
It's 4am.
It's 5am and the
ghosts at the end of my bed
are still dancing, but
that's okay because
their macabric songs
lull me to sleep.

It's 6am and my knees are
still bruised.

I want to leave, I have to go.

My veins are
deserted
roads
that lead
my
heart
   back
         to
           you.