Drizzle without November
Summer ends on my no-dreams land.
The trees surround the isolation:
the old clochard that once lend me a verse
now is dust and butterflies,
and all my afternoons never existed.
Now and always, that slight face.
The clarity of your eyes drawn in November,
stabbing the cold with
storms of broken innocence.
An ancestral game:
mirrors and music dying
to feel your hands like knives,
to discover the stories buried in your hair,
to charm you with my dead and my living things.
Then,
the drizzle,
the holes,
the absences,
these verses that are already yours,
everything can be used against me ...