I like it this way.

I fancy it wet and gray; fantasizing all those

passing planes in dimmed light, on the late nights,

and the elderly’s sincere novella.

I saw the blurry greens, the painted ponds

on a steamy ride, and I asked

the eternal question:

Did you ever know how deep it hurts

when you murmur those words;

while collapsing my world?

I’ve learnt not to rive, not to sway;

I know how to digest and not to

wind up in any way.

Let’s leave them all behind and climb up

to the rooftop; hands locked, eyes wide shut,

seeking then saluting the

non-existent sun.

Let’s swallow the poison and spoil ourselves

in silence, in this ‘very’ moment

cause happiness is ‘now’,

my sweetness.

S

Where are the love affairs and the eternal gazes

at the bus stops, way under the foggy

shelters covered with nicotine patches?

Under the morning breeze when ‘to love’ is

far from a random habit, I crave the hot sand

rescuing the sealed kisses; treasuring the lost letters.

The final destination is a flawless spot filled

with leaves of grass, with singing birds and I,

I’ll linger there in silence, holding tight to my dignity.

S

Falling and shining
like a raindrop on
the wingless
butterflies.

Daring and dancing,
while covered in
red; in cruel
paper cuts.

Between the sky and
a screwed up head,
I freeze; will
then rewind.

S

One, two, three…

Converting my belief
to my inner self, while
updating my black(est) list.

Painting a faceless “you”
then erasing it with a
“who bloody cares” attitude.

Capturing the non-existent
gray sky and showing it off
to the proud shining sun.

C’est tout.

S

I am mysterious.

You – too – are mysterious.

We – all – are mysterious.

And they?

They are monsters –

mystic monsters.

I wish them…

Oh, never mind!

S

When things
go (not) so right
the clock reads the
time six hours behind,
gray mustache grows long
above the old lady’s reddish
lips, and the crown is resting
on the idiot’s no-brain; he talks about
his inner scars while the single-legged
wild pigeon is feeding the tobacco
ends – hundreds of them on the
cold concrete – to her little
ones. Yes, that’s when
things start to fall
into the (not)
right path.

S