Sting

Lights on the surface of the wine

and your constellating tiny moles

they lift me up, to your sky

The swarm of freckles on your face

and your silky, honey lips

they sting my heart, sting my heart.

Mismatched

Perhaps it was the best

the lukewarm, fragile end

the hearts that felt like worms

under a raging sun

A museum of troubled love

lingers intact deep within

with its dessicated thoughts

and duly classified despairs

This is why it had to end

the kisses, the glances, the touch of my fingers

they were all synthetic waves

or anachronic ways.

Echoes

We were almost one, once

when the time was ours, hours

and we went everywhere, were

as a Gordian knot, not

when the right winds blew, blue

and your voice I could hear, here

and the love would pour, poor

into our eager souls, sole

Now

I can only hear the echoes, echoes

that come from a hole, whole.

Sandcastles

Above the sun was bright

the sand was hot, the breeze would kiss me

The size of time seemed vast

like it could fit all life, all memories, all sounds, all smiles

Your tender hands were red

and shining like a diamond

while shaping walls and towers

for a world in time suspended, until washed by the tide

And inside the love, the bravery, the magic.

Stuck

He pulled out his head

from his empty pockets

and could see on the bed

the lack of profit

The lost smiles

the lost lost causes

the traveled miles

in circles

What happened to the odds?

When did they shrink?

What happened to the blood?

Why is it stuck?

Note

Beholding the universe 

that lives in a single note

you can travel, travel, travel 

and travel some more

Just one sound may summarize so much

joy, anger, longing, and hope

the roots, the kinship, the courage to stop

and sometimes to go forward

So much complexity in such a fleeting noise

air moving swiftly, rushing to escape 

from a soul who practiced silence for so long

but ended up on a stage

learning that fear is just stranded desire

that a cosmos awaits in a note.

Improper

The silence grows

a void fills the space between them

words are scarce

the aftermath 

of improper longings

bliss then shame

But why be mad?

he understands the reasons

the thrill it gives

but he's not allowed 

to allow this conduct

and this is the end.

Cuckoo

As the days go by

like a stream of noise

words become dull

muses hunger

It is a way to die

being automatic

like a cuckoo clock

wings numb 

Not having anything else to say

that's how we go mute.

Stars

Heteronym

Sometimes obvious, sometimes discreet

sometimes invisible the heteronym lives

We are all bunburyists to some degree

a little Mr. Hyde that hides in the skin

the skin and bones of memories and plans

that we see like when looking through the glass

where we find ourselves and whatever lies ahead 

combined, entangled, shared.