SIN IN THE SUBURB

There is a stillness in me, not soft, but heavy, as if the doors were closed long before I knew how to open them. I reach, but my hands are empty. I am unsure if it is absence I hold or if I am the absence itself.

Or maybe it's neither, and I'm the silence between the two.

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Trees have the memory of life in their trunks. Their rings are a testimony of the passing of time But they are struck down as if time had not existed. We prefer to erase fragments of our past.

                                               “poetry.”

If only I could enjoy                        true solitude. Not this loneliness                        haunted by ghosts. but the pure one, made from the echoes of trembling of trees.

it’s the true essence of human nature.

like ink on a rain-soaked sheet

I know that I must count on the endless stars, to feel that infinite distances cross me. So, I became an astronaut who caresses the lips of the crystal moon and drinks each comet for inspiration. I undress and live in the labyrinths of the untamed cosmos and build a palace on the nebulae. There I own the constellations and learn to swim among the spiral galaxies.