It doesn't matter
to the people in the street
that I look at them
if I exist

there is no need
to help me out
through the window

waiting, tired of waiting
back in the chair
back in time

lost in possibilities
of old summery desires
to be touched by you
while the horse is snorting

your innocence
unconscious and untouched
by my fantasy

your boredom
that seduces women
and keeps me awake

as I rewrite notebooks full
of poems, to have them tasted
by your blushing lips
in the afternoon hammock

But I don't want that anymore