To whom it may concern:
I stopped thinking of you
the very day I realized
that butterflies' wings rest
over a feeble body
of a rose which withers
over time.
When I stopped shaking up my hands
among dreams and sleeplessness
in the precise moment
when the night became
silent ally
of a fall and a winter
bringing yellow leaves
and white sheets of mist.
Sometimes we run into
on some corner and I smile at you
to see if my message reached its destiny,
but it's the same shadow
and the same emptiness
lighting up over
the same moment that is extinguished.
What can I say?
No shipping charge
to be considered,
only the wrap of dreams
ripped and rumpled
ready to the garbage bin:
not even recyclable
for it was made to measure
of a world still covered
by green and a sun smiling
behind some dark glasses.
Nothing else to add,
just remains of hugs
that still stick around here
and an obliging farewell
as a final gesture
(because good manners call for it)
from the one undersigned,
always
each day less yours.
