The ones who left
I hope they left with pockets full of everything that was mine,
that way I can resent them in peace
and call them thieves and scoundrels when I get drunk,
instead feeling that I have wronged them by being myself,
by having nothing in me worth staying for.
The orange pink drops of raining summer
falls on the threadbare skin
and crying ribs of the broken umbrella
(the only one you have).
Strangers gather under the dark shadows
All the sorrows waiting on the tables
to be chosen, to be had,
promising you a deeper life than what you have.
To be consumed and to be forgotten,
till you wake up at night
to the sound of voice that you never had.
Tomorrow you can look at yourself in the
to see what you are becoming
to make better decision
to buy smoother skin, captivating life
that is on sale on every street you walk,
for anyone with pockets full and empty hours.
I open a paper that will travel
but will not have the good fate
of getting lost.
The confessions of my affection
reaches every ear
but not your heart.
Oh! Let me be you.
Who walks with a sun in your pocket
for every rainy day.
Who stood at crossroads
and decided which road shouldn’t exist.
Let me be you for a day.
So that I am not the one
who hides in hollow words,
who makes her bed on the dreams of others.
Let me be you,
so that I can put out my hand
always with the confidence
knowing that the love I ask
shall be given.
But what is this that I feel?
Why my hands shake?
Why my heart cries?
Is it because
the one who is breaking the wall
with bare bleeding hands
has the same pain, same fear
as the one who is hiding behind that wall.
Is it because
this love, this life
leaves no one without scar.
There are pockets in my shirt
where I occasionally find
some money I forgot to spend,
some scribbled paper
which seemed important
but was not.
I find ghost of your hands,
that I forgot to wash away.