In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me
as far as he is
he can duck and press the gas medal
quickly, urgently, not even a riot
could stop him from ringing my bell;
he can come up close to me
and kiss me with his fluent tongue,
hot love escaping his pores
as he races to see what the fuck
I am up to today
with my theory of the day mood swings
poetry readings in crumpled sheets
playlists of old tracks of my heart
that still make me pounce
on the front line of his soul.
Every city sinks at one time or another
every colour turns blue
shades of grey
are just a fantasy
memories float on the river
of my small city
(who the hell collects postcards besides me
who the hell cares for seashells
in the middle of winter).
One hundred pages left in my galley
but I have to check on my sanity
from time to time
escape the characters in my head
that live and breathe
without my knowledge
never wanting their story to end.
It is never enough to love for eternity
not even possible
to have one love
all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean
no one can see.
Ready for him
when he is
should be written on his sleeve.
The only lovers left are the poets
creating a secret world
among the appearances
of the living
seem dead. I am so alive.
Come from your frustration
and enter my highway
and stay a while.
Write another poem.