true love
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
