When the voice
on the other side of the line
inquiries when
I am going to settle the unpaid
fee,
I think of your eyes.
Remembering
the time withered
of so many unfinished thing
and so many chances
rotting
among the corners
I never dust,
I think of your eyes.
And your eyes lead me
to your mouth
and your mouth to your body,
and your body is another
failed shape,
abandoned to the sloth
of hours
and minutes,
and saturated fats,
but your body
after all.
When in the nights
I listen to the seasons passing by
among the creak
of the wood,
dried and lacerated
by winds
and endless suns,
I think of your eyes,
your mouth,
your body,
and about how late it is now
for sleeping,
and for understanding
that this desire of you
is just another dream
into the debit
of a life
unable to pay off.
