Broken Telephone

Poetry is felt
not understood
just like your breasts
feel in my hands
like your kiss
misunderstands my lips
and so, it’s only felt.

Like this love
So strong
sometimes I could swear I could even touch it
and like I still can’t understand why you left
and even though I can feel poetry
I never understood you

Your soft and strong thighs are my poetry
with the minuscule cotton curtain
white, immaculate
as if recently pulled from your drawer

As poetic as a woman
that needs no explanation
that I feel and don’t understand
like that phone that will talk to me no more
now, all that is left is my silly poetry
that I try to understand
day by day.

Insomniac

Dream escapee you
turn into my insomnia
then dawn knocks on the door and wakes me up
with a warm cup of coffee
I wait for you, impatiently
only to later fall asleep once more to find you
and so it goes
the daily story repeats itself
and in this way I play with the ghost of you.

Again, I wake up, I get up
and walk the streets looking for you
In the whimsical stupidity of my days

But it is more
much more
it is a hungry desire for your endless skin
your poisoned lips
your eyes

As the day runs out
and so does the coffee
and the paper
and the ink
and only the dream remains
on your unbearable insomniac nights