Autumn is just so full of you.
The pale sun, the fading colours, the cold wind.
It's all the same and yet so different.
Autumn is where we met.
But you're not here anymore.
And I'm not the same anymore.

The trace you left in my mind is mirrored in the reality.
In the way I see things.
The way the trees sway as if they didn't want to stand any longer.
The way that faith crumbles to dust like the leaves on the ground.
The way the people walk by in a hurry.
It reminds me of you.

I see you in the way everything seems to be ending,
see us there.

Autumn was our favourite season.
But I think it ain't that anymore.

I remember
something vague
from a distant past
which I can't place yet
here in the present.

A story in my head
filled with fun
and intense happiness
not a scratch on my crystal ball
everything healthy,
nothing broken.

An era has passed
a love perished
the piece has been written
but I don't like the ending.

There is a story
In all of us.
The saddest part
Is when we let go,
And another
Writes the ending.
This is why
I hold on to you.

someday i too, will
be nothing more than
a faded memory

nothing more than a
name on the tip of your
tongue or
a brief second glance
in a shop-store window

and although i knew
this was ill-fated
at conception

still, i needed to love you,
needed to know i tried my
best to make you feel

anything

It broke into my fantasies, crushing my daydreams. Making my longing break into an ever higher pace whilst the rug was pulled from under my feet. Facedown, sweat and tears, blood and pieces. Tasting the rock bottom, falling from the clouds. Breaking my bones, my connection to you, making me blind.

It really did break my heart, seeing you two.

Broke it in a non-refundable kind of way, a permanent way. Broke the pieces I'd left of you, for you, saved, so that we could one day return.

let's start with a simple hi,
and end with a ferocious goodbye
do you remember the first night we've said i love you
that's like my taste of first kiss,
never thought i'd give my love so easily
just to be broken in a bliss..

i kept telling these tales inside my head
that this is only a phase, a nightmare someday i'd wake up to
but it's been almost 2 years and it still feels
like a storm and mess inside of my heart
and all those places, i see your ghost
and past laughs and goofs,

i don't wanna move on from the realest thing i've ever had,
i want you to call me by my name and tell me it'll be okay
and hold my hand again even for the last time,

i've tried playing fire, destroyed my memories with you
chose recreate it with others, failed as a failure like me,
i wanna scream at you, but really i just want you back..

why'd we end up here, can you please tell me why?

Like breeze caressing in its
trap a feather grey in air’s
flight so have I
been caught
in un fulmine dei pensieri di
appena circa una dozzina
di minuti
fa.

And I have to most urgently
capture Me in this
flight and non-tormenting
air bubbles coming
out of my watery
&
treelike sight
by
breathing this moment
of realisation
gently
yet hard/strongly
while I’m at it,
at Shepherd’s meaning
of Treasure in
Coelho’s work cast
especially on me
& my antics of Now.

And that letter
here to be
shall be
lost
for a moment under
that pencil:
scribbling on sun-scorched
plane passing,
logophilia
and greater future to come
and
be
done.

For when you
finally
drink from a little bit
of Life itself in
you without any stimuli
foreign to you,
you’ll see that
It
is it that’s the most feverish
in what’s the best,
the sufficing binge.

I’m giving into
your hands this
redemption of mine till
I
AM,
for currently it
is the biggest truth
given to me
by
Allah.

I sense these Signs
as they find each other on Me,
like they make me insert
all the answers,
intentions,
with a hard semblance
and the durability
of the terrace wood
against my worked up skin,
in my lungs.

To where will my Own Legend
lead me?
There are certain
premonition
and in-depth
in this moment,
in the castle of the epilogue,
of the book,
in crystal blue,

in how all the world now
persists in my head
desiring to leave
a trace somewhere here
so as not to let go
of my hand
from its.

And the Sun
that parts almost at
dusk through
a hollow in the clouds
stormy-like
behind my back
seems to be winking, glance throwing,
of a foreboding,
of its presence,
waning,
on what will be able
to come.
And it’s gone.

And how Pueyo would say it:
“May no one deprive
me of living.”
I say it to all the pop culture,
and these false suns
“I’m not yours to take”
as much as I can.

And should we not listen
to understand
instead of
to reply?
Aren’t constant thoughts
that replying,
and pure being that
taking in (all the striving),
like when facing forest
in a
cold
prickling
air
to encounter?

Hold me like that,
that as I am,
in your hands
for a while.