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a wet street is not similiar to rain
but it's a sign that it has rained
fever's not flu
but it's a sign
i woke up with my hands soaked in wine
and begging you two things:
1- excess
2- not going home
can we have only first dates where we can always be
anyone else?
can we exchange habits?
close my eyes between your legs
i love burnt bread, black coffee and butter
and swimming through time towards time
like in a midnight carless highway
fever's not flu;
it's desire's errands
it's a trip you tell no one
it's a page or a screen.
it's a sign,
how would you describe it?
is there something stranger than kindness?

i woke up with an idea in my tongue:
let's play a song that remind us of us.
let's call it a quest.

my dear, my darling one.
it started out as an apology
and ended up as a misty and sweet
winter garden.

what do fireflies sing in the dark?
your skin crash landed on my skin,
a bottle of gin and two tons
of self driven fingertips and all-ins.

nothing never really mattered
nothing never feels new
never any different.

i thought i knew better
-i thought i was really sorry-
i thought i knew bitter.

this is my dream, but if you don't like it
i have better ones.
buy me some.
i'm just building a house a brick per day.

it's been a long time.
that's why they call it No-Leather-Shoes-Holiday.
take these before we run away.
kind of empty by the way.
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2020
I heard the chimes
of iniquitous wind
rush in upon
familial branches bent
in the middle
it sent the smallest stems
to spiral
as lost sons and daughters
captured in darkness
and forced to bow before
the lightning strikes
of tyranny
For the Mothers of the Disappeared
Kevin Riley Jul 2020
in Argentina
the name for *******
“la bombacha”

but with the accent
of Che
it leaves the lips

and it sounds as sweet
as they
on thin
brown hips
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