You let yourself be. Free to think of it. The acceptance of shortage. Which demystifies the images. Revives the dream. You want to believe in miracles.

You let yourself be. Free to think of it. The acceptance of shortage. Which demystifies the images. Revives the dream. You want to believe in miracles.
Standing by. The dream beautifully dresses the pauses. It spares life.
Over the sound of hers. A music of yours. It doesn’t get old. You can perform it repeatedly. Monotonously beautiful. Like the first time.

In a different era. Voluntarily exiled. A receiver. Of buried values. A guardian. Conquering the truth. Learning. Bearing.
To live with it.
You listen. You smell. You feel. Like you see. Absence. Poor experience. Weak. Lost in time that does not roll. Until you see it. You learn again. Close to her.
You win. You’re jealous of time. You choose the words. A parade in front of your eyes. You spent. Hopes. You fill pages. You make the sky your wanting.

Present. The sound does not seem to be yours. Joy is the echo. It makes you calm.
A bell. You perch. Fear of abandonment. Nature. You, undecided, eavesdrop. Fuss is made by the alive ones. You chose.
Unperturbed. You are overcoming ugliness. You keep dreaming
.

Abandoned sentry boxes. Lost borders. Battles. Without a winner. Memory as a friend. Stands. In the cold night. As long as it lasts. You breathe. The kiss of life. One. Yours.

And there are also these moments like endless dashes. Without nothing to follow in between them. They are naked. Exposed. The memories spread back behind. Stacked. The hours pass. Orphaned.
Like an endlessly back and forth of the living. They find no breath. They are lost in recurrence.