Bent afternoon.
I was six, almost seven
watching for hours some off-track ant
climbing my finger,
when I first stepped into the comfortless sobbing of
glass guillotined raindrops.
I perfectly remember that day
secluded
between its own precious pearl necklaces.
Now the still light windowsill shaped
puts me on hold.
Baking this sweet bread meant for no one
is the best I can do.
While spreading the black ink of uncertainties
on the white, electric sheet,
my fingerprints are growing darker and darker.
Wayward,
this flimsy life successfully lives me to the end.