The door opens With a creaky sound Resemblant of that Of an upright. I tremble And dissipate Under a distinct impression Of a mellow fingerdrum As the elder brother rushes Towards the second son For a goodbye hug Or, perhaps, a goodnight kiss. Walls become wet And gently crush me Into a coffee bean sparkling Glittering mass of yesterdays. For what was, is and to come Is surely hidden inside a matchbox You keep in your inner pocket To protect from rain, burglary And other troubles. Look up at the sky: I’m standing close to you, Garlic and tobacco odour included. Even when I’m not actually Here.
The stars; They aren’t other worlds (although some people say they are); I propose a toast to my self-control And to the sweetest place I’ve ever visited — The corners of your mouth.
She's the slow sort of lover, The kindle stiking the blaze. She burns like hot coals; melding Skin with skin like molten metals. This wildfire will not be tamed; Will not bend to any whim. She grows ever stronger with The passing summer wind.