My eyelids are the most faithful mirror where I can see myself. So I closed my eyes. You were there…

you have no idea how many languages speak my soul how many translations makes my mind how many loves, i loved how many loves loved me and how they got old, — coquetting with the future... [is golden] you have no idea how my fragrance splits their thoughts kissing their dreams, provoking their pulse, their smile, their heartbeats to flee out of troubles or any other pressure, [you haven't, have you?] — [neither do i...]

hunger hurts, — especially the hunger for love (yours…) i tried even some courier platforms, — (you weren't on their menus) and i feel as if this longing (for you), it metamorphosed… (into a monster) (like a parasite, jumbles me…) lord how i'd wish this burning gets into you, too

look at me now, — devour me rock your love on my lips… their savor tells you to tell me in the language of longing accented with savage dreams the manner you feel me, (you)

The fireball caught a demon camouflaged into Grandes Oreilles, thru morning's eyelash. Sinfully, a phone's ring, stabbed the silence making me stutter some not-so-cheery words. Attracted by cadence, nobody anticipated what I'll be writing about, as the music flows. Moon's hiccup, in nocturnal choreography hardened someone's lips to don’t bring me down. On trees, bloom a verse, inked, (for curious' eyes). And you? You smile, [translating, calm, my light].

How tall is the grass cultivated by your brush on my fantasies' canvas, [it's an enigma] How many parties of colors got diluted with your rave in my thoughts' water, [it's swanky sin] How much joy brings to your air's ankle, when my wild blue eyes step on it, [it's atmosphere]

when the day's completed, i give it soul, i give it light, i give it wood blue's scent i allow Clapton [do his job], so tenderly to sigh to me, — [who's… wonderful tonight] ad interim, i do nix but sip a dominant red glass, which gracious, kicks up my heels

the woman in me isn't arrayed; looks for you, not as you think; at whatever hour, she's assisted by a tonic, [coffee or something] the woman in me, — smilingly, adores to make dinner plans; it's one of the benefits of being an absolute fantasist capable to sneak you where she longs the woman in me... seductively, will not try to tempt you, giving booze, food, love, and so on; yet you'll wish imprisoning yourself in her life, in her dreams, into all the woman in me... is cleverly sly, is cynical happy, is hurting no one; beware what you wish or ask for; hating to love her isn't an option; the woman in me might not joke the woman in me is felt, isn't seen, it looks for you, not as you think; yet, at whatever hour, she's assisted by a tonic, [coffee or something]

it was a box... for memories... (the wild ones) they said, — (aloud...) (looked like some smiles) an echo of the eyes, — (somebody specified) it was and it's so effusive,  (the glint of life), said others (some wrote about it...), (some made a film...), — i heard 'em mentioning, — some do it still... (into your mind...)