L'OTTAVO DI UNO SBADIGLIO

back, bring me back



as a painter's brush frozen, dripping colours afraid of blank space

and the inevitable end.


as the glance of a hurrying man, almost at his destination

yet wishing to turn around.


as the gentle blowing of smoke, circles of sex

inside your mouth, tickling your throat,


as those words fighting to free themselves,

and be let loose into air, carrying with them regrets

and the shards of a secret promise.


and he laughed,

saying he had never heard

of anything so silly.



agosto.07

apen.