The hair in your face separates lightly
looking down at your shoes.
The ringing noise
of the background
characters we are
and it seems we enjoy the silence
the wet floors and high light.
Sometimes walking past the same streets
your scent still lingers
it twists and turns making my stomach churn.
Sleepy eyes that look like a falling moons
I wish sometimes to rest in them
Again your image still is not faded
  incompatible with the reality
That you are you and I am.
As I chose my escape over your coven
Where I was merely decoration to your light.

"can you be mine?"
In soft spoken words at the end
of the staircase
her face puffed
her eyes red and awake
they glistened with the emotion
that i didn't want to see
rather looking into her
eyes  i was looking at
myself in her eyes
She teared and cried
her knees weak
fell like i had devestated her
I wasn't in love and she wasn't in luck

I am walking through
pieces of glass they crumble
my brittle ankles feel the tension
of it as i walk through
where I belive is an alley

The sun is high up
the sweat is catching up to me
there is a woman sitting on the
handlebars of the bike,
the man pedals

they scream and yell
and slowly then the pedaling stops
the glass I walk through is silent to the cries of the woman
angry I don't understand how they could argue in such state
when from afar they looked as if
the wind gave them kisses of goodbyes
and the truth is maybe I had known
how it would end
but as always I prefer my ending

In many tries
to hide, I've had
a rose. I let it
go once in a while
but girls I know
comeback to ask
me why the rose
is so pretty

"i can almost
steal it from you"
i am not the gardener
nor the owner
and yet the rose
depends on me

in a trapnest ive
held the rose so close
and i've tried to let it
go to the girls who
laugh and grin
to something thats mine
but not quite. I am not
a gardener but the truth is
i  like to control
the rose and i have
kept it  close in fear
of loosing it.

The rain drips
It drips one by one
Hitting my face
One by one
Down an empty street
Lightning flashes one
By one over and over
The bakery down
Two blocks
November rain
And the pieces of bread
With my hand on yours
And drip the rain goes sliding
Past your shoulders
The drip goes as it falls
Between the glances of lightning
I reminded that in November
I walk with my shadow in a birthday
In this soil and I dry again.

The water that goes in
and out of my body
the soft spoken words
that reach my tounge
I stare at the door and he stares at me
I am no opening
nor ending and yet,
I hate the color of anger and
the color of rebellion
in the same way
I hate violence
I hate the color of blood
the choice of liking something became clear
When you have no choice you choose a path
When theres two you question
when there's five you question
I hate the color red in the
same way I hate lust
I hate the color red the
same way I hate you
And I came not hate red anymore
in the mornings instead
I look up and I came to
think that I don't hate red but
the misery of me.

eight hundred meters repeats
one hand over the other
smoothly striding my way down a path of gravel
it crashes with my feet, they are brittle
they crumble and stumble
Hand over the other
breaths that I take and that I forget
that the meadow again blooms  
mouth dry and throat sore
again I am doing what I feel most alive in
one hand over the other
I stride down a mountain  
it takes away from what I can
I build from what I feel
and again I want to leave the comfort
the comfort of being alive
eight hundred meter repeats.

A complete pie with bits of filling
it's closed and shut, it has the taste of bitter apple
bitter bitter like the hands of someone
sweet sweet like the glance of someone
the words that don't stay where do they go

And yet if they left why would I look
into someones eyes or the mouth of a shark
bitter like you or the sting left behind
sweet like the words that linger in my mouth
the language we shared that we can only understand
bitter bitter cariño why can't you demand

The body of one who has been touched with no feeling
a rage that flows in its deepst grip
clothes are torn and sobs are heard
what is more than the mockery of the Carcass the one who claimed it's dead
the object that died in its ******* of what they feared
To who has heard the mockery of the Carcass
at night by the cemetary
or next door by your fellow neighbor
but do not fear the Carcass is alive
and yet you claim it's dead
for that you do not value it by what it is
but what it has.

how to be wanted
like
curves sculpted by an artist
a lover with a paint brush
wondering what goes wrong by sunrise
a stroke with your hand
the air so fine and heavy
as our breaths pace and dogs bark
the fence behide us
if the eyes of someone struggling to understand
how to be loved.

Moonrise and sunrise
Their ubiquitous presence
in war  
in festivals
It's rage and it's freedom
to control and be controlled
no place to hide
a place to look
and you are in love with venus
across your heart and though your mind
but tell the god
you are the god.