People looked at me with those eyes that said
poor boy, so young, so healthy, so white,
and me from the mattress told them
relax people, I'm not so healthy, so white, so devote,
I don't wash my teeth every morning as you do,
I don't change my socks everyday as you,
I don't read so many books, I don't do sports,
nor work as much as you do,
relax people.

Let me see your eyes,
let me see if they also
have the dreams shattered
just like mine.

And I wanted to be a cloud,
to be up there in that sky
with closed eyes thinking about you,
in the way you pronounce my name.

It seemed you smelled
a little bit like *****,
a little bit like beer,
a little bit like dove,
a little bit like boys don't cry,
a little bit like wednesday morning.

I can’t sleep. Sometimes I write when this happens. It used to be from myself to my own sheets of paper, but that has gone wrong too. My mind can only write about you now, I can’t think about something else than yourself.

The paper has become your legs. The words come right out from your red, perfect lips. Sentences build up right from your hips.

Things are never written down as they should, it’s pretty much alike when I try to say “I love you” with my tongue all over your body.

Your eyes remind me that no matter how much or what I write it’s never going to be enough to describe the kind of feelings, the kind of images you bring. I have to write. I feel like I’m not good at it anymore. You, my notebook, you have overwhelmed my capacity of expression.

Not even this words are coming out as they should, right now while I type nonsensly, I think, I wonder, is he ever going to read this how I want him to?


I feel cold every colon, every period. They indicate it’s been long since I died when you kissed me.

Sometimes we go out
looking for stories,
for people,
or for inspiration.
But we end up
finding ourselves
at the end of the road.