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.