The skyscraper
Sees much from above,
Imposes, marks the landscape

He thinks he's big
But he'll never
See another city

How I feel
About today, yesterday
And the day before:
I feel like
A building falling down
For being to heavy;
Like a car
Over a garden;
Like the rain and cold
Over the homeless;
Like a brick
In the ocean;
Like a fish
Trapped in a submarine.

I don't wish to die
For that would be
Sand in a desert.

I wish to have never existed

Maybe I were
Two different people,
Maybe I could not fit
Within me.

I was sure
To be in the right way,
To discover a new way,
So life could go along
Within me.

What is left
Of what we were,
Of the days we traveled,
Of the futures that never came
(But we were sure to make them happen)?
What is left
Of those complete smiles
That were to compensate
Every tear ever dropped, before or after?

I leave us as a different person.
For better or for worse, different.
An expanded person
For which I'm forever grateful,
But, still, grieving. Hurtfully grieving.
Dreadfully grieving.
Cursing my existence grieving.

If this ever ought to heal,
My only wish is:
May it never suppress
Those light moments
We gave each other

If only
I could see
Farther than my ego.

Happiness lasted
While we could feel
Skin and skin.

The dance of the days,
Compressed in our struggles,
Expanded in our thoughts,
Coloring the absences
With the most complex mix of ingredients:
Passion, pain, wanderer thoughts, missing, carrying, crying, jumping, yelling, silencing, grief and joy.

The last of the happy days,
Of those days where
Everything were re-doable,
The limits would keep us safe,
And I was proud.

From this moment
Nothing expects me
Except the certainty
That the happy days
Are rushing towards
The past, losing its smells and taste,
Like a voice, getting weak and distant,
Until nothing of it remains.

I was wrong to believe
That my pain would make me
A better person.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

The world turns so
New things can happen
To reinforce
World exists.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Beat, beat, beat.

You're alive.

If life were to happen again
It would explode
Into this,
This uncertainty,
This half lived moments,
In the mediatrix
Of fear and confidence,
Of poorness and night life,
Of starts and new jobs,
Of roads and destinations.

But this point,
From which costs more
To turn back
Than to move on,
It's the essence
Where meanings are not required,
But clarity:
What and why,
What and why,
What and why;
It is life itself,
Happening,
From opportunity to opportunity,
Floating just to decide
What's likely to exist
And what's not.

Men is evil by nature,
It is civilization which ruins him.

At points
What pumps us
Imprisons.

The difference
Is abundance.

Every house
Has another house within.
In the smells, the roughness of the walls,
In the little cracks
That barely are seen.

The voices remain there,
The dreams remain there,
Our gentle touches remain there.

It is also in the furniture.
The same house with different furniture
Is another house, with another house.
The tables lose their colors,
And is still a table,
A chair changes until no chair endures:
It is a tree once again,
In a forest of other chairs
And doors, and wardrobes.

We cannot sit anymore,
We cannot rest,
Neither be there:
It's somebody else's house.

But between the cracks
The air blows
A distinct sound
Of every spoken words
In this house
Of fathers, mothers,
Sons, workers, masons.

Bricks are just bricks.