The eyelids started to open
one after the other;
witnessing the early birds
and the mascara stains on the pillowcase.
Fighting the nightmare of the chimney guy;
restoring the lovemaking stories.

Yawn.

The light is still blinking –
after all these years, she wonders.
The never-ending blinks tell her everything
but don’t tell her anything.

Yawn again.

The alarm goes off –
How desperate; how annoying.

Snooze.

And again, it goes off.

Is it the art of sound that matters to her
or perhaps the shape of anxiety?

Stop.

She rises – calling his name out loud.
She puts a new postcard
on the mirror and goes crazy
for the reflection of her face.
Then reads the same love letter
written by her hero; by the love of her life –
knowing all the words by heart.

The door is open.

Bang.

The door is shut.

She feels the flakes on her dried-out skin,
and the freshness of the northern wind.
She catched the very
first train and puts the
“last train” on repeat.

S

I dreamt of this poem

on the plane coming back from

la ville lumière.

I begged you and the tree leaves

and her and the glory in his gaze

to be(come) my inspiration.

I came from uncertainty

where there was no remedy.

I flew back for more;

for the ultimate.

I am now back my friend,

inspired, as I am.

By the rain coming down hard

on the same cobblestones of the old town

and the smoke in the air

coming out of the cigar, blending

with the scent of the fresh rosewater.

By the smell of the café crème.

and the baguette crumbs in the same old place;

by the small coins and the big smiles

waiting for garçon de café;

by the shine on his moccasin in burgundy.

By the heart of the poor;

by the frown of the killer

and the dusted books on the shelves.

By the golden antique ring shining

on her chip-nailed fingers.

By the light at the end of the tunnel;

and the unfinished stories

still hanging in the history that we both belong to.

By his emptiness;

by her being who she is inside

and by my own refreshed heart and soul.

Sweetness,

I will be back

with more;

for more

and

much

more.

S

Tonight the moon wasn’t at its fullest

and I finally felt close to its emptiness.

Tonight I stood tall in front of the lights

witnessing poetry, dancing to the unspoken words;

jumping high, reaching for the starless sky

and miles away, her bones and skin mourn

for him, whose patriot heart stopped

beating against brutality.

S

– Have a good night.
– I’m getting off too.

Zooming up to the sky,

and the fake stars

are spinning around

her blemished eyes.

She draws a giant circle

above them all,

fills it up with

the whitest white

and grayish dots.

Begging to forget

the agony of

the bastard

sad songs.

She smiles and frisks

then frankly lies;

sings along,

getting high.

She flies and

falls deep in heart;

inks her soul with

butterflies

and paper cuts.

Feels them all

and buries them

in sleep, in a life

ever after.

S

Rewind.

I find myself among a million non-existent lovers,

rushing to their beloved or to the rainbirds, and

I’m standing in stillness, admiring the yellow line,

minding it beneath my mind’s shutter.

Where will I stand in the next

forty eight hours?

Fast forward.

Confessions, tears, strangers,

heartbeats – the heart hoards its beats.

Elegance, surprises, adults,

let’s go wild – in to the wild,

et cetera,

et

cetera

Play.

The moon didn’t hide that night;

the sun won’t ever hide my love,

the truth – once again –

beat the lies.

Stop.

S