the rift between
knowing someone
and
understanding someone
is only crossed with
the experience of
selfless intention
and
boundless love

I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight,
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train,

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

One day, you will return

to the moment you left yourself behind.

To touch the outline of your absence

like a photograph you forgot to frame.

You’ll gather the scattered Saturdays,
the drawings no one kept,
the questions you were too afraid to ask,
the stories no one stayed long enough to hear.

And you’ll remember the slammed doors,

the silence between two people who once made you,

the friend who stopped texting back,

the laughter that vanished from the room.

You’ll walk through those rooms again,

dust in the corners,
and sit beside the stranger,
your hand on his own shoulder.

Only this time,
you won’t hush his laugh.

You won’t close the door.

It will be as natural as breath,

as quiet as light through the curtains

of a house no longer haunted.
This time, you’ll tell him you’re here now.

Every door will open.

And the only thing heard through the hallways

will be the laughter of a child

and the stars in the night sky,

laughing along.

This time, you’ll stay.

The streets come alive when so many
Sleep softly into their dreams.
      The newer L.E.D. street lights pierce
The secrets on the Old 90.
    The women that the sun does not touch
Is aglow in the moonlit pavements,
Because she is a nocturnal,
     To be seen by those who cannot see
The bright sun, she shares herself
With the secrets, only known to those
That never stay.
    
       And to better fit into the list,
To better know the secret is to become
Something other than what is expected,
      A desertion of your standardised
Places, where scars can be hidden,
Everyone can dress as royalty,
     This is more common and natural,
Becoming the creature we all seem to
Leave behind.
     And here there are lovers,
Beckoningly fighting one another
For a chance at one night,
An embrace in the eternal momentary.

    And the thirst is deep,
The desire is a window to the stellar
Places, a deep freedom in the nocturnal,
        An occasion set for nightly meetings
Of souls with shadows that seem to chase,
       Street people on the Western venture,
An exchange of souls at home in the night.

He loves
with rapt attention
his nearest neighbor
an unattainable beauty
a temptress
veiled in aquamarine
and evergreen
she has forever been
his only muse

he reaches
invisible fingers
across the void
seeking warm earth
against the bone
chilling blackness
for he cannot
turn to face
the sun

she is breathless
beneath his fullness
her every landscape
willingly unfurls
his forceful touch
swings her tide
from crest to ebb
she can only spin
in ecstacy

she memorizes
each scar
on his luminous skin
for she is wise
to his lunar ways
love that borrows light
to show its face
is surely meant
to wane

Throwing rocks into the winter river.
Ice as thin as a child's soul's skin
Carries not the weight
Of History's oldest weapon.

Like a paperless poem it shatters,
Floating away with the fleeing stream.
Water needs no windows.
Nothing is outside to its within.

Until we have to leave
Let’s set fire to the royal garden
Breathe in heavy all the smoke
And then call it intense
Make our bed in grassy fields
And on sandy beaches
So we have room to roll around
Put up our middle fingers to the law
And kiss each other in the streets
Once the government outlaws touching
I’ll call you poison
And you’ll call me morphine
Like they’re our ******* names
Remind the world that when Satan made hell
He took notes from when we said our goodbyes.