Have not crossed the street
in many years
to greet you.

A slice of moon
leaves footprints in blood.
Maintaining the perfection
you start giving names to trees.

Paraplegia:
you start dismanteling the life
in search of romance with death
for immersing the dreams.

Take hold of my arms
I want to invent your portrait
in sands of nocturne.

Drink the milk of silence.
It is dark, but soothing.
Go to sleep.