Sometimes, as the sun sets,
And the sharp grass on your bare feet
Leaves its marks as you pass through,
You reach the goal net.

In that rigid inability to move past it,
Still seeing through,
Where the sun lies,
"The obstacle is the way."

You might think the goal net is the goal,
But behind it, something deeper lies—
Something brighter,
Something ever-present.

The beauty of the sunset—
You don't have to go anywhere to see it.
You don't need scissors to cut the net;
You don’t have to score, just be here.

Turn around; see it not as a barrier,
But as a frame, highlighting the beauty.
The net is no longer in the way—
It is the way.

that comes along at 3 a.m.
to wake me from the dreams
I’ve been living in.

An unwanted visitor
that doesn’t leave,
as I try to get rid of it,
push it away
with desperate hands
waving in the dark tranquility
of early morning.

A visitor here to teach me
all the ways we resist the world,
all the ways we wish we were elsewhere,
trying to control what’s not ours to control.

Desperately waving our hands around
as if that would do it.

As if,
as if what we want matters to the world.

One mosquito can ruin everything;
you can turn on all the flashlights,
stay up until 5,
but you won’t see it unless you do,
standing there on the edge of the wardrobe.

With a certain resolve:
“smack.”
Gone,
away with your worries,
and now you can return deep
into your dreams.

If only we could smash away the problems,
all that buzzes around in our heads,
all questions unanswered,
all that torments us deep into the night.

“Smack.”
Gone.

If I could gather all the stars,
And place them in a bowl,
If I could capture a sunset
And frame it for your wall.
If I could scrape off sunlight's glow,
That kisses the green grass,
Blend the mixture gently,
And serve it in a glass.

I would, I would,
A thousand times or more,
To bring you closer to the beauty
Of all you're longing for.

Falling to the ground,
My bike beside me,
The only light, the moon above.

Falling once more,
As if it were the first,
Lost amidst Italy's hills,
Searching for myself.

Falling again,
Hands over my eyes to halt
The flood,
My body, a mushroom's form.

Retreated, like a turtle withdrawn,
But I had no shell.

If only I had a home
To find solace,
Anywhere I went.
But that night, all I owned
Were hands as doors,
Legs as pillars,
Belly as floor,
And my voice,
A leaking pipe.

A car passed by, but I was scared,
Afraid to hope they'd care,
Afraid they'd prove me wrong.

So, I shrunk into silence,
Ensuring my fears took hold.

I wandered the dark path,
Where trees obscured the moon,
Now but a memory.

Falling, a necessary but insufficient
Step before standing,
Before shouting,
Before soaring.

Flying akin to fireflies small,
Whose kisses saved me that night.
A darkness so bright, my hand invisible.
A firefly is all you'll ever need.

In that empty, claimed black expanse,
You grasp for it,
But there's no 'You' anymore.

I thought my shadow would linger,
Yet, I turned pitch black,
Sprinkled with dots of hope.

In the depth of the night,
when the crickets and cicadas
are holding my pain,
and they chirp as each tear wets the pillow,
I would like for you to hold it too.

To be fully seen is to be
a closed book with a lock,
for he who has the key.
He who cannot wait for the night
to come and let his pain be held
and also hold hers.

He prepares himself and reads
a page or two a day,
immersing himself more and more
in the story of her.

To be fully seen is to know well—
well,
he could grab a pen and scribble all over,
add a page or two,
write instead of you.
Yet give him the pain, and the pen and the markers,
excited to see what he'd do.

Because you have his book, too,
and all you want to do is highlight,
draw a rose or two,
plant a kiss or two,
where the scars are visible,
where the pages are torn.

When it feels like too much—
two people and two books—
to be fully seen
is what I am here for:
to open the book of my heart
and my life
with hands trembling,
with eyes caught,
with heart open.

Did you throw away the key?
Forget it...
I want to read your book, too.
For every page that ends with a question,
I'll make sure to add my answer to my book.

To be fully seen,
as a soul, naked,
floating in space,
with you,
you can let go,
with all my secrets,
with all my questions,
with my book.

You can tear it to pieces if
you so decide.
With my heart trembling,
and a bag of markers,
I'll return your book and the key
and be glad I was fully seen.
At least, I tried to be.

Sometimes, no matter how much you explain,
the person cannot read your book well,
nor remember the details
carefully underlined by you.

Maybe, just maybe, the closure is to see
it's not the quality of the book;
maybe the genre's just not his cup of tea.