clapping
knock at the door of your morning
imperial life line
we have so much to read
yet you're saying
the library of your love
is closed
and salesmen are too busy
to breathe the same cerulean as me

and still
i can interpret the gates
of that smooth white
that can inhabit
earth
and the galaxy of your nails
subtly made its way down
my eyeballs
like some avalanche
of doves and resurrections

and no,
that wasn't supposed to be
a four hand concert
you didn't have to remind me
in that silent manner
like a deaf violin string
playing egyptian atmospheres

and maybe
your palms read my future
smoothly speaking of no quake
and if today i might just live
inside another prison


y o u r
f i n g e r t i p s
r e m i n d m e
o f b l u e,
o f d a w n,
o f y o u r h a n d s
a n d m y b i r t h
even if sometimes i have to die
at least partially
i will always have traveled
inside the romance of those two
hands