In the loneliness of a Saturday afternoon

only my contradictions are real. I play

“Like the Deserts Miss the Rain” over and over,

as if to exorcise my stupor.

I carry the past in my mind,

I think of you and me, of what we were

and no longer are: long sighs, walks hand

in hand, your eyes lost into mine…

Life is shallow and I can’t bear to go

deeper into my myself. I am thirsty

for words that fail me, and for colors

echoes, shades I haven’t sensed.

I write this poem, while its object

is long gone, lost in adverbs of time.