I am afraid to be touched, she said
but instead of keeping back
she kept pulling me near
and all the nights were so much painted blue
or blue was the color of her eyes?
It is the same anyways.
I'm coming from a different road
and I like reading and smoking
because it switches smoke to lights
and then I saw a very nothing of their own
in my life's so different something.
And I like writing
because it is the only way to switch the lights on or off whenever I wish to.
I'd like to paint some love on my chest
creep again with the ocean
and say again "why not".
I'd like to fall for me and for my ideas of sea
I'd like to listen to the beat of it
I'd like so much to deep-breathe the touch again
although we will always somehow fear
I'll write a story about you and I
I'll paint a clock
I'll paint a melting clock.