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.