because beyond my eyes there is the sky with the stars in your eyes; because at confession, my soul hasn't kept the mystery of the poetry that you are; because you know to read among the rows, among the seasons, among all the points and all the unspoken commas; because towards me, you were written like a novel of amorous fiction; because you met me all the way like that love at the corner of the street, thinking that I am to everyone when I was just your poetry and not of someone else; because I lived you as two lives in another life sharing all kinds of emotions that some never heard; because my confessions became yours having the spell above of the sinner and the culpability offered clearly, through the eyes and eyelashes of the fragile balance of chemistry and of everything that could be kissed; because I've been searching for you so much and by a sublime chance, I've found myself; because your prayer to your God was with me, and all my thoughts returned

I can write to you only about everything I can not tell you... just enough to not disturb your dreams with me on your site. I already know your wireless feelings are hidden each night thru the fated days under the keypad circuits of your inbox. So deep you're fixed to be with me as I am with you in mind.

i was wondering if tomorrow will be heard in my sky's soul some acute echoes in your spoken language, attired in some incantations with proper inklings, while ingests tasty frissons just to lean the fog in spam, sufficiently to can be seen my spectrum's chromaticities in the smoky apparition of your black-golden beam, wrapped in the suave scent of a wild Irish rose, fed by me‥

I'm gonna seek for you through all the beasts of my hamlet and yours until I’ll get tired and then I'm gonna take it again from the beginning. You will rummage beyond my eyes and you'll seek for me inside you like a medicament soothes a body. I will send all the wolfs of my soul to catch your trace and to sniff the scent that’s been anointed by my wild heart. You will send all the guards of your spirit to look for me through the place where we kissed each other for the first time and where we used pseudonyms designed nicely to look like a confusing plastic love instead of names. You will wander through each path, beaten up with the finesse of my steps and sculptured by stones in a delta just for cheering my ankles. You will run like a madly one howling through the valleys of my mind, and through the mountains of my senses of the woman I am, but also, through hilly hills of any story of ours that reminds you of me. Then, when you will find me, I will love you… — I will

❝ your steps, children of my silence, ho-lily, slowly placed, towards the bed of my vigilance, proceed dumb and frozen,     nobody pure, divine shade,     that they are soft your steps selected     gods… all the gifts which I guess come to me on these naked feet, if of your advanced lips, you prepare to alleviate it an inhabitant of my thoughts, the food of a kiss...     does not hasten this tender act,      to be soft and not to be not,     because I lived to await you,      and my heart was only your steps...❞

everything it's in the speed, — delirium as far as the sky, —  we are in antithesis, the subjects of a dirty simple game —————————————————— my shy eyes descend desirously... but I breathe you in this urban decor —————————————————— she's killing me, she's killing me, slowly... she wants my heart, she wants my heart, from my chest; —————————————————— she's so gracefully among of bored crowd on the road and seems a hidden dance, where two strangers submissively dance —————————————————— my shy eyes descend desirously... but I breathe you in this urban decor —————————————————— she's killing me, she's killing me, slowly, — she wants my heart, she wants my heart from my chest; she's killing me, she's killing me, slowly, — she rips my heart, she rips my heart from my chest; —————————————————— burning on the asphalt and pulse the fire, it burns, burns shockingly burns too beautifully, the heart it burns, it burns, I confess... —————————————————— she's killing

your heart, beyond any doubt, it's illiterate, — otherwise, what excuses I should find for it, (forever from now), — when it conjugates at imperfect, love's verb, as if it adores to watch me blazing in the beam of a sunset, when my body is pampered and blanketed with the shadows of your kisses, — entirely out of control, in searching for more, devoted to a perpetual exploring, (where's my girl ؟?).

The common cards, – known as hands, are dealt… — You express the impassivity as no one to read you. This blindly game, the curiosity, – do it in slow motion. The dealer looks at you, asking what you're betting on, and you, well, you know you've got nothing more to do than a full concept, – straight – or an improved suit. Whatever kind you choose, it's perfect. Cards, are shown. The house always wins. And you know you're lucky by a good hand when you've been falling in love with me.

while the nighttime unwraps me to scent me with you appearing from a playful beam of the moon, the daylight metamorphoses me using incantations of the flowers in your daydream profile of love

The imprint of our love, it's everywhere. From the missing people with the APB, until the scene of flagrante delicto and facts. The traces are on all flanks, far and wide, thoroughly. Nonentity and nothing can immaculate 'em. We are doomed to a punishment without the verdict, to be haunted forever by this absolute emotion which survived beyond our first meeting. This feeling, the freedom for the soul and thoughts, never left us alone. With suspicion and courage, we always returned to this place of this poetic sample, without misstepping in the whirlwind of passion, but strictly for this love... the taste for music. Every time we took for proof our looks, our hugs, our breathing and our heartbeats, basing us on the palpitations of our minds, chic, whispering to each other, — (the carousel of mine, it's you) L'empreinte de notre amour, c'est partout. Aux personnes disparues avec surveillance internationale, jusqu'à la scène de flagrant délit et de f

At this hour of whichever month, I imagine how you take me by the hand for walking together through that kind of time where we could suspend the timepiece just a little bit, only to feel the scent of your perfume on my skin and the fever of your fingers which is equal to the temperature of my hot pulse. At this hour of whichever month, the past, the present moment and the future gets decomposed into yesterday, today, and tomorrow making my moon to play with your sun promising that the sunrise on your side it will play again with the sunset on my side. At this hour of the whichever month is a kiss... incalculable kiss came from the past to the future, — and your mouth smells like a flower of the moon, and my taste is like a frosty sun... and true love looks like a poem wandering through a melody... — set to ask if at this hour of whichever month, do you think about me

what a good, — that you are what a marvel, — that I am of the miracle you are of the happening I am like colors that never met one too high, — one too low yet identical, yet chess mate yet you, yet doppelgänger