To catch a seat at this hour is pure luck, to be able to look out the window and pretend that I have diplomatic immunity, that I am outside the glass at the surface with the breath of leaves since it’s still Autumn, the flavour of mint that you like and the cool air that constipated me, the thought interrupted by an old lady to whom I gave my seat ( Read more... )

This morning we are two of those that observe the movement of the leaves, the cyclical murmur of the first faces that march to work; two of those that watch the vagueness of whatever exists as if we were foreigners and it surrounds us so fiercely that also defines us as aliens. Only the fragile leisure of our imagination could associate this day ( Read more... )

not sure why i try, really

One can grow wrinkles for having lived the sea or from the aging of a difficult awakening, the daily lye of saying satisfaction amidst conformism. Can anyone really prefer a swamp over the perturbation of senses? Life is holding on to a dune only if there are two arms of sand for whom to dream for.

To write is perhaps infinitely simpler and more genuine than to say what it was written. For me, however, it is never easy. The language of gestures is more skin tangent, more innate in me. What could be more difficult than being simple? I always look for the answers in the brightness that often invades your eyes, in your spontaneous and absolute ( Read more... )

I do not know what you possess that leaves me wild, I see you and soon I have this urge to hug you, to enlace your waist, to lean at you and kiss your neck. I do not know what witchcraft is this that filters the sun, the invisible stars. It is as if I was prisoner in an orchard and your lips were grape berries and your eyes the marine salt. With ( Read more... )

I like the rain because when it falls I chase your hair while we run the avenue of lilies until we loose sight of all the others. And where the water is plenty I would raise you from your waist and when we’d reach the arch we’d spread our wings and you’d teach me. Come, let’s leave the forest. The leaves of lilies are trapped butterflies and I feel ( Read more... )

I had brought you a poem (I forgot), invisible, of those you invent from surprise to surprise, late at night, slowly, serene (breathing) until the conjunction of both terms. Let’s not talk however love, but of time, of music, the color of your hair.

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No, nothing arrives late, because all things have their right time, like the wheat and the clover; only, unlike the ear or the wild flower, any time is the right time to let love blossom. No, love does not arrive late. Your heart and mine know, perhaps secretly, that there is no such thing as a late love. Love, at any hour, when it searches the sun ( Read more... )

Perhaps being alone, at night in your room, you will hear somebody calling you without knowing who, and you will learn then, that are things like the wind ( Read more... )