I wish I could write my poems only for you, that all my honey would taste of you and of calla lily notes. I wish I could write to you and love you, because that’s what I do best in this life. I wish I could give you the best of me along with a bouquet of calla lilies.

I fell in love with you, sitting beneath this birch tree, my legs draped over yours and our laughter echoing against the cobblestones.

Time drips, relentless. Irreparable, the hours slip away. Before, unconquerable, dust confiscates your body.

I, the one of the river I do not carry, endure: I can only give you, I can only offer you the calm imposed on the starving, the barren lands of the skin.

That’s how it is: we neither need each other nor miss each other when we’re apart, but as long as we’re in the same room, we turn the world upside down with this attraction; just as the moon raises the tide.

The wine cools on the table, no one toasts and no one sings, the empty chair remains, and an echo of your worn voice.

My cheeks smile, turn into two pieces of chocolates, and a grimace crosses my face. It tells my fingers to follow its rhythm. Head that usually goes many (several) kilometers per hour, now stealthily descends.

Doing without glasses on purpose: perhaps in that opaque imperfection lies the beauty of things.

Now I realize: I feel alone. I get overwhelmed. I listen. Outside, chaos. Inside, you.

Because without your name I am incomplete, because your name hides my memory: there will always be a trace of one in the other.

In the middle of the avenue, a woman from the street is walking, clearly under the influence of some drug. Her hair is messy, her clothes dirty, her gaze lost. Her features are harsh, she looks angry, walking as if daring life itself: she’s moving against the flow of traffic, and for a moment, it feels like she’s coming straight at me.

I know I should love others as Jesus loves me, but with you, it becomes a bit difficult. Still, I hope you open your eyes soon and return to your humanity, and not your ambitions.