Your calm, so distant, drifts into the burning light.
It carries no apology, no urgency —
only the quiet cruelty of peace.
My kiss trembles with impatience,
and through parted lips, I ache for the sweet torment that guides you.
In your frenzy, I feel electric eyes —
tracing shadows where no witness dares follow.
The sun withdraws in silence,
leaving only the softness of your absence.
And so, woman —
immensity waits for us around every corner.
Your stars fall into curses, tears, and quiet laughter —
those sideways glances,
the slight smile when saying goodbye,
the déjà vus that sting without meaning to.
A blind night, hollow in time —
yet full of you.
A night wrapped in reality's hard shell,
still pulsing with green mystery,
as if your life itself were bound
to a fragile, naked moon.
Virtue belongs to those who dare to reach for it —
after the war, after the silence,
after the long road of forgiveness.
There are those who crave the stories of your sorrow
and my own quietly bitter hours.
The cowards of infamy —
victims of dreams not their own,
mourning grief they’ve never carried.
But I — I have lived through the collapse of luck,
through the choice not to steal your touch,
through the delicate cold of your hands,
through the act of breathing
only what feels holy.
And no —
I’ve never forgotten your scent.
Scream — open the pulse, risk everything.
Scream — taste the reason you still believe.
Starve, if you must —
but in the name of freedom.
We are not puppets in the cold,
not merely tormented by illusions,
but innocent —
for being more human
than what the world expects us to be.
Still, they sing their sad, unraveling songs —
melodies of crimes long pardoned,
intuitions lost in disagreement,
plastic toy carts, children’s laughter,
coffee, tea, cigarettes...
marijuana, heroin, amphetamines...
pornography, sadomasochism, pain...
the idea that vices must be renounced
or perhaps simply —
the desire to fall asleep in someone’s arms.
Two souls, untrained in the art of pretending.
Caught between freedom
and the roulette of reckless joy.
Metaphysical melancholy —
Catholic, drunk, beautiful.
And yes —
the hunger to trade the entire world
for the depth of your breath,
the sacred weight of your skin.
Blessed are the children
of minds that transcended their forms —
shattered in avalanches,
yet still here, still rising,
still eating dust between broken phrases and quiet fasts,
unmasked in the morning light,
as jazz hums by the pillow,
on the road we’ve walked too many times,
beside a forgotten highway cross,
in the place where love stays unfinished
and never extradited.
To take your hand
and walk into the sun before it wakes.
To have you take my arm,
say nothing —
and say everything.
Your bullets, forever imprecise.
Your eyes, forever full of something unnamed.
The inertia of tasteless dreams.
The sense that somewhere,
others like us still exist.
Politicians, reborn as poets.
Swallows, displaced by storm.
Artists who once were prophets,
sinners, alchemists.
If thought and speech could shed their weight,
and if knowing too much about life
didn’t make it feel so dull.
Naked vigil.
Addiction, confessed.
An impossible Venus,
caught in a sliver of delirium.
No words that burn.
No desire to sever.
No need to erase
the face of your voice.
Only the quiet joy
of disillusion —
in your rhythm,
your form,
your way.
...and still,
they tell stories
of neutral elves...
(transversed and reimagined "Duende Acústico" 12/11/2006)
