Summer is the tip
Of a year of work and satisfaction.
A long slide is now ahead
And my hair waiting to fly.
Time sticks to my hands
And I long into it for too long
Its forgotten faces,
the I will never talk to you again,
The let’s hold hands and let’s forget
Make the wrinkles of my young palms.
Proteins stained in little bands,
Peaks of the line to tell the dna,
Bring back a hue of blue
From the summers lost.
The lab has sequestered me,
The sun is just light.
You speak soft words
In a language dear to me.
The memories fly in and life makes sense again.
A friend is more than a ear or a shoulder,
It is our hand and eyes,
A family of sounds,
A nest of stranger’s feathers,
a piece of the stubborn beating leathery heart.
My arms are crossed
And my thoughts far away
When the bell rings.
The day is over
Or does it start?
I head home and fill the last hours
With tenderness and personality
Until the sleep comes
And my heart holds a list
With minute-long experiences and small memories.
I pour my will into small annoying actions
That like a mosaic assemble my days
and write line by line my story.
It is difficult to read from here
The final labyrinth they form.
One click is one situation
I wish to remember and store.
Digital data take on the value
Of vibrant feelings and dear persons
Condensed in a limited second.
No more foggy memories and personal additions
To the story.
Gathering emotions and transforming them
In those little wrinkles and kilos who do not leave
Is a tireless job
I seem not to be able to escape.
Making visible what can only be felt
Is a talent of man,
Yet an embarrassing mark.
I am starving today
For those warm afternoons running in the fields
And those silent evenings reflecting on a book.
Food for the avid mind
And food for the temperamental belly
Do not overlap
And are complementary.
Squeeze your mind
In the bright day
and observe the drops on the table.
The red line of your everyday
Is condensed and finally clear.
Dried it leaves your successes behind.
My stomac bumping,
My breathing getting short
Tell me another Monday is coming.
In its simplicity,
A single day can grab the freedom
of the whole weekend.
Time spent walking
Among flowers and mountains,
The curious stirring for an exotic dish,
The calls with the lived ones
Get immediately sorted as memories,
Once the Monday comes.
I have only short fingers
To tell my story
And type passionately this night.
In this short distance,
All life condenses in drops of memories
And vapour of lost kisses.
Short words will be ideal
To write those heavy memories,
The persons that can only be remembered,
And the baby steps I climbed
And now behind my back.