as I did it before, but not knowingly, in your love, I surrender over again; the stars' nectary are your words and diaphane touch, your perfume; infinite miracles recite your soul and fruity passion, your dreams' sap; veils of melodies are your chic smile ripened in my thrills, night and day; a wondered vibe is your good night, and bubbly wine, your mornin' gaze; your love, held me, holds me and will still hold me, between your lips; now hug me, kiss me, take me home; home is you, in my dreams, sure thing;

the eyes of my moon it looks for you everywhere; she longs for you, too … don't turn back to me; the love I give isn't for you, — she heard you mumbling … surely, her love is single monster that moon knows hid inside your bed … heartfelt, you'll be asked why don't you tell me the truth kept on the blind side … like an ancient one and somewhere, miles from nowhere, you wait for me still

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].

my technology with his methodology hot sexology pfft, love's poetry devil's musicology omg's psychology mesmerised... [both] thru focus... -ology in art's symbology

when i want love, my lungs hear my wish letting a song be, — [your hands on my dreaming heart]; in between, another song prepares your lips on my lips to push me to the stars [to moan... with mad lust]; adjusted by the light of your eyes, i'm kissed and wrapped in poetry's empire [for love is what it is], — king of your heart and queen of my heart where i call you and you call me anytime [at the hour of the abstract art];

my blue night has the disorder's smell and the perverse silence even when the voices are heard in metaphoric algorithms… — [and that’s so frenglishly cynical…] lucky me because I’m beauty’s miracle, — a performer even in the sun even in the shadow attracting butterflies and Kolibri transcending above any fears, making darkness charming fire with any of my joys… emanated

the eyes are coughing your patience, the lungs are inundating your echoes, the body feels your grey atmosphere, the soul emits perfect your whispers, the night goes on silky in your dream, your frisson utters how you love me on the earth on the sun on the moon

you know i'm gonna love you until the end of the world, and then, i will wait for the creation of ever is happening, to happen, again and again, while both of us will listen to the same old song, (preferred and rose) by (me and you), the one who loves me and knows exactly how i want it

A glass of love, please... To not be cloned. The bite must be unique. Must be full of aroma, having character... and doubtless, the scent of the sea... The kiss must have the taste of wild fruits enriched in floral's notes. A glass of love, please... filled with velvety words. To not be cloned. Must be mysterious... Must be similar with those whispers which, at a tender moment, we've had some drinks, deeply expensive in our pink creativity.

with you, I feel like I'm drowning even if our love is using the omertà's code, even if thrills and rhythms of our hearts in our beauty is in perfect accord, even if we breathe exactly as we exist, from dawn till when the night is over, even if the longings slide in our meridian with tender kisses, (delish-succulent), as if, — 'even if' — is a vector that asks the other, if our irrefutable passion is increased

(don't blame on today but rather on any holly day) (don't judge me, for i can hear and talk in dialects of any demons, of fury, of sadness, of hell, of pain, of the madness, of the terrors, of sleepless hours, of the tears, of tortures, of darkness, and silences) (don't scold me, for i've felt my own blood, freezing and boiling simultaneously, or when i had and lost the pulse, gazing thru the eyes of disappointments) (don't insult me, for i know the taste of starvation, the scent of the thirst and the isolation), (do not...) wary, i propped myself on hopes' wall of a new day, i used the energy of my own agony to climb at life, i left my pain's music to guide me, accompany me, and to orchestrate with all my cicatrices, at victory there weren't any gods, weren't any saints, or devils, but people, anonymous kinds, wearing proud, suits of the indifference, cynicism, ignorance, arrogance… so, (don't blame me, don't judge me, don't scold me, do