I wrote this poem some time ago, during a sleepless night, mixing up parts of dreams, bits of everyday life witnessed across the bridges in the city and tears. Young love is full of promise and warmth; it is strong and resembles the sea in my mind. It comes in ceaseless waves and softens the soul in its darkest hours.
I want to hold you for a little bit, for a few minutes or for as long as a summer’s heartbeat;
Hold my hand, love, hold it, while we are running toward the very end, the deep end,
Of the train station full of the smoke choking all the old hearts.
I will hold your face in between the soft palms of day and night,
In between the shades of the changing sunlight
And warm your nose with my equatorial breath.
I will close your eyes with the whispers of the south,
I will take care of you while writing poems with a devilish mouth.
I think that perhaps I had met you one month ago
In the ancient realm of those who dance with their feet five centimeters above the earth
But you were wearing a cap, and I could not see your eyes,
For had I seen them, I would’ve whispered your name, which I knew not.
Maybe I would’ve shaken my head from left to right
As do the ceaseless waves of my hindbrain, when I trip a bit
Maybe I would’ve silently kissed the shadow of your temple or maybe not.
Maybe I would’ve given you the letter I had been writing behind my burning pupils,
A seven-word letter, exactly the number of days there are in a week,
Exactly the number of capital sins, exactly the number of seconds it took me to fall for you
“Meet me at east of the moon,” it simply said.
In that moment, your silhouette dissolved as if it never had been,
And I was left wondering, wandering the fields, the beaches, the paths of the thoughts of a lost lioness
Asking from lighthouse to lighthouse
“Has anyone seen a man made of rain drops, walking toward the last post?”
I’m still running, on the back of the lioness, asking the same old question,
“Will you meet me at east of the moon?”
“I’ll be there by noon.”