We went to the bank with weft and cigarettes,
we had a park turned into a square,
a common cathedral among modern buildings.
I laughed and your blisters mocked our night.
Shoes in the hands.
Your stories gauged my attention
while in an apartment
neighbors discussed coexistence.
That night could have ended terribly,
were it not for the sleep, the constant yawning
and the silly apologies.
After those moments
is that one learns (Borges style)
that too much talk is bad,
that the future is uncertain,
and that the best of our existence
is the moment in which we live.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
