I write to you in crooked lines of my concrete poetry, in lost feelings that a long time I cannot taste it, and I expect you to understand my profound agony. I write myself, entire, for you to savor my deep desire to be only one, you and I, abstract contrast of the two of us walking to the stream that takes us beyond our dreams. And also with my whole body, I sketch the outlines on a blank paper, frozen in time of your mind.

Listen to the words, as my body, they sing to you the sweetest melody that comes from my soul. Do not you understand it?  Listen to it again. Maybe you can learn to dance the same rhythm than me, and we can dance on the streets under the moonlight, naked in the wind.

Read me. My words are no longer innocent or clumsy, they are my skin you can feel them. I overflow between syllables and phrases for your delight. Read me. Devour the subtext of my thoughts. Interpret my storyline, my plot; all my words are untouchables, dormant; they are waiting to be uncovered. You just need to understand the meanings of confusing beats of my heart, letters and foolish sentences of my prose in febrile moments.

I just write because there is no way to reach you, writing, I am free to bring you with me, wherever I go, I take you in the pocket of my memories, in my deepest secrets where I find peace and contentment to travel further when the night comes… ♥