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
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