I do like the calming rattle of the sea waves,
the gliding rain which sneaks through the natural
fibers of your clothes,
the moistening drops that slip into your skin,
disclosing and caressing your mild sensuality.
The ink of the acid rains carves geographies, heterotopies,
on your ligaments
whereas the edges of your legs draw idyllic landscapes
on the crude burning asphalt, as watercolors do.
Walking along the bridge you teach me the path beyond the river,
through the harbor: the one we’ll never leave from.
Behind those red grates I’d see you coming back hasty and laughing,
you’d came with a bunch of withered herbs and you’d apologize for being
late.
You’d tell me that you’ve fallen asleep under an olive tree thinking how
glad you were to be on a desolate wasteland.
Time is rhythm: it’s measured through your hands gestures,
the ones you make to show me the shape fulfilled by your dreams in the
space.
There are no paths besides those drawn by the rising dust, the one we lift
up crossing the road, the ones we leave behind us while stepping on this dry
desertic floor.
The wrinkles made by the sea embrace your distance and slowly drag it towards
these shores.
The salty mass between the coasts is just a bridge, it shines
back the sky we both gaze at, while we dip into this dark blue blanket,
pretending it’s water.
We’re just on a chunk of concrete, in apnea, but look: our fingers are
almost reaching that port, it is called Utopia.
