Maybe when I stop
staring, the colors
will dilute the
ceiling painting
and the pianist will
hit the last key
escaping the scene
like a sad coda
and you come up
the stage to plant
a soft kiss while
the music continued
and I hummed
until the colors
were back again
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoesíaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
