yes, you can call it anything you want.


i am a cause of dusk
waking up as it all
settles, in the dark.

there is no feeling
in the colors of the sky
it is as is.

but it isn’t the same
between the lines we write
my being feels strange.
i dream without seeing
the dreams that i have.

it engulfs me.

bianca and rosso
become the small talk
as we move our glasses
closer, and closer.
i’m filled up to the brim
the sensation in my spine
has gone past
the threshold
for normal, long ago.

we’re sober
and our clothes hit the floor
in the night that remains.

there’s a rose on my table.


I shall not touch you.

you somehow makes
an empty bottle
reminiscence about its glorious nights.

in the mix of lights
you emit your own
while making sure
not all escape in the world
around you.

your leaves breathe
as you stay still
your tilted head
reaching for my eyes.

I shall not touch you.

even when your warm color
invite me to dive deep
in the curiosity of an infant.

and how I love you.

I see more and more
of you, in the
quiet midnight.
you shimmer wildly
on my leftover night

with an empty bottle
of lambrusco, holding you
as the centerpiece of my poem.

i’ll find a way to slip into your skin.


from the moment you put down
the weight
of the couch you helped me carry
I noticed little sweat drops
escaping the subtle tangles
of your hair
running into
the shelter of your arms.

i was modestly jealous
how easily they could get
somewhere i’ve been craving
to go, all this long.

in that moment
i promised the foggy city sky
i’ll find a way
to slip into your skin somehow.

how many people.


I wonder how many people
in this city
live on the streets.
late at night
when silence blossoms like tumor on our lips
when even the crickets hesitate
I walk among the shadows
of their past and present.
every face on the sidewalk
looks back at me.
blank stares.
cautious hands.
tired hearts.
and oblivious souls.

I wonder how many people
will come back home
and write this down.

sea glass.


on this sea glass morning
I lay on your sand
by your side.
the heat breathes subtly
carried by the wind
bouncing off my back.
your every wave
reaching the shore
brings me back the memories
of the lost and worshipped
that now fly through your waters.

my eyes dwell
in the lullabies you sing
and slowly start to dream
with you, of you.

what do the ghosts
that you carry read to you
at night?
it all just dissolves
in your vast existence
and settles down at the bottom
of your feet.
the bottom that
sooner or later
will find it’s way to
where I lay.

the more you reach out
to me, the more
I fall for you.

seasons.


i bundle myself in the
arms of mist. i have a
faded scarf with
your smell in it.

did you leave the scarf
knowing I’d sniff it
almost endearingly?

that scent
that takes my mind back
to the times
that come back
with a sense of loss.
when I was living
besides the calm waves
and the arms of summer
trapped me in the
scorching lullabies of
your every breath.

somehow the seasons
have lost their way
and forgotten to call out
your name. my raw heart
beats against the fog
and this city cries
for a lost loss.

you will be here. and your
name will keep on
unifying the wait.

Three More Daysa.co/8qmOtnw

back to the shore.


As if each kiss
is one more promise.
a little wish
carried by the waves
to the shore.
perhaps already
we’re summoned by the hand
which calls
to the inevitably youthful eyes.

As if each kiss
lingers like lilies
in the swamp.
you hold your breath
you also hold mine
and in the slow return
from the fire
we struggle to breathe.

the bent head
the curved neck
and the bell strikes again.

we make our way back
to the shore
bound together, the sum
of life.

$5 a poem


I cannot speak
because I’m feeling.
my voice belongs to another.
my feelings speak of her.

as I slowly climb the stairs
with my voice quietly settling back in its place
I notice the loneliness
of the paintings on the wall.
art can be vacant
like the inside of the shoe
while the humans howl
in the sun.

I walk into my room
and a tidy bed awaits.
it certainly wasn’t expecting me
this late
or my new habit
as I pour a glass of wine
and open up my journal.

I have my voice back
but I still cannot speak.
I’m feeling
the echoes in me
as I bring the glass
to the horizon of my eyes
and paint the walls residing
in my mind
on paper.

poetry is what happens when
nothing else can.