Look at me.
I have my side soaked with these sparks
melting away so many veiled winters.
There’s ivy in the songs I listen to
at nights
and that thin line that separates (interpreting us)
the want for each other
from the want to ravish one another.

I don’t know.
Nostalgize me.
Let’s go back to blinks and look at us
right before you end us...
“Able or unable?”
Madrid was burning yet there was a kiss
in which we didn’t care about
dying in flames.

Take out the camera and capture this:
The Moon cries as well
knowing it will never
be able to reach the wolf.

[...]
He walked to my left
so as not to stop brushing against my heart.
He settled down legs tired from encircling my head
right next to mine
and whispered to me things that I’ll take with me to my grave.

He left ink in my mouth,
undressed his back
and beckoned me to write our story.

Disgusting.

I saw him smile and I understood that my whole life
had been a mockery,
as if love could be drawn
and weren’t a boy missing the bus.

He saved me from the jaws of a dragon,
put a coin in the fortune’s hands,
drew a song from his underwear
and we danced together in French,
he stripped to stop the taxis,
forgot about his house,
and when he found a way to warm up my feet
my head fell asleep on his thighs
and the world
was a bedroom drenched in stars.

**** it,
it was prettier than a dolphin breaking through the waves,
hands wrapping up magic, preceded by his tongue,
a scarf in the clutches of the wind,
it was a ******* kiss in the middle of the war.

Then he went away
because this is what the people we will love forever do,
and when he did it, I understood everything:
“Love is a cage opened towards the sky”
Ever since that moment I haven’t opened a door
that tends to close itself.

You spunky *******...
I fell in love with you,
don’t you ever dare to forget that

Penciliving and other meltdowns
on the beauty of the sad boys,
those who keep in their pupils’ intensity,
a terrorist’s extremity,
on the one who can’t choose between two
paths and in the middle prey becomes,
on the mouth full of salt
and the sea’s cries that for its remembrance exalt,
on a mouth that stings from no return,
from the inside
and inwards,
this is the only way of writing I know.
Gather your broken heart,
and confess yourself:
make love to your battles,
submerge into poetry
like an impostor holding their breath
in an amphibian world,
vow to yourself (and thereby, the most worthy
of all the loves) the eternal freedom.