Waiting For A Car

Orange crescent moon

My dear friend is near.

But it is so far away.

I saw her last night.

By the side of the road.

How many years have passed?

How many tears had I wept?

No matter what choice I make,

I forgot to pray.

How much does the guilt weigh?

How much time passed? Or I ate.

Now she's a shadow of herself.

While a hole grows larger in my chest.

I want to sleep by her side.

Hiding from undefined mistakes,

For once, to feel rested and well.

Again, I say, so fair, lady.

Eyes as blue as the sky,

With a charming, big smile,

Her red lips against a skin so pale.

I should forgive everyone.

Even those who broke my entrails

Because God is looking up there.

While the moon is my only friend.

Ah yes! Antidepresants!

You can't be depressed if you are uncouncious...

The chase is on

The chase is on. It's pointless to look back. She was running wild. While her persecutor follows by

Small steps full of hatred Echoes through still dark hallways One mistake, and it's over.

The chase will never end. She has created karma in her soul. Her shadow is what hunts her. So they can be again whole.

Small steps full of woe The dark wooden door is blocked. Now the persecutor touches her cheekbone.

The chase has concluded. They are coming back home. Old personalities begin to dissolve. While the heart yearns for a safe return.

I hate those summer nights

Such hardship is to write

When you have a knife embedded in your spine,

The bones passed the sentence this morning.

Myself is gone; no more soul coupling.

Waiting in the bedroom alone

A hot, wet night full of scars

Keep away from his poison; no more trouble.

While in bed, sweating, puking bile

All my life, the bones said in a grave tone.

I was submerged in the bitter black woe

A miracle of the agonizing fate

My deep cuts were in vain.

Ever since that November evening

I feel my open wounds becoming blue.

Once you notice it, you can't stop the hum.

And I should hold my puke whole.

How on earth might I change?

For I only knew pain.

The bones said I possessed the tools.

That I must try and always carry on

The happy word of the day would be book.

Interloper

I remember that day well. My first delivery was at an old man's house. He was taking a nap, alone, in his library, hugging a big leather bound tome. I slowly woke him up, called his name and we went for a walk.

After a couple more takeaways, I sat down at a cafeteria for some ice cream.

- "Don't worry, I'll order one for you." Said the middle-aged man to his wife.

She didn't take any seat, she was looking rather annoyed. Shortly after, the man emerged from the ice cream parlour.

- "Pistachio, whisky cream and ... what was your favourite flavour?"

- "You well know I'm allergic to pistachios, change it to strawberry." she said, raising her voice a bit.

The fair haired man entered the shop again, now she really was annoyed. Not even a minute has passed when the man knocked from inside the place's window.

- "Do you know where I put my credit card again?" asked with a mix of meekness and muffleness from the glass panel.

The red haired woman sighed in frustration, passed the shop's threshold, extracted the man's credit card from his pocket and said: "let me do it".

After a lovely cool dessert, I took another nicotine gum (withdrawal is hell I tell you) and paid a visit to a brother and sister. The sun was up high, vaporising everything it touched. They were buried alive under rubble, a missile hit their apartment. He was hugging his little sister when I came. A really sad picture, I confess, but the job must be done. I held him by the shoulder, called his name and we left that horrible dark place. I shook his clothes to remove the little debris he had on his clothes and we went for a walk.

They said "Juan Gonzales" (a cover name), you see, I know everyone by their name, their true name, so I know where to find them. The room of the hospital was white, clean in appearance, he was on the hospital bed, being watched by his friend, who was holding his hand. I did not waste time, a few minutes later I was out, consuming my next nicotine gum.

The next call was in an apartment, a guy was punching the walls in rage, she was lying in the middle of the living room, covered from head to toe in blood and bruises. I hate to see them in bad condition, moreover, I can't finish a delivery successfully if they look so rough. So I did the humane thing of cleaning her wounds and wash her carefully in the copper bathtub, she then woke up, she looked herself, looked at me and smiled, thanked me, told me she was an engineer, she just won an internship at NASA, I congratulate her, said her name and we went for a walk.

I was having some pepperoni pizza for lunch when they said "Juan Gonzales", I remember thinking: "Again?! Did I miss that one?". I entered the hospital's lobby, 10th floor, white impeccable room, the two alone being engulfed by the yellow emanations of the noon's light. The bedridden’s friend was immobile as a marble statue, I swear, he was not blinking the whole time! I said Juan Gonzales' true name, and a few minutes later I was masticating another nicotine gum on a bench at the park.

The next take-away was a courtesy call from a rockstar, he was trying to reach me, after he broke up with a gorgeous gal. He shut himself in the damp bedroom and produced a rusty, filthy, syringe from his backpack, laid down on the bed and he inject himself with some white substance, an hour later I was holding his long greasy hair, helping him puke into the toilet, I said his name and we went for a walk.

I was drinking my evening black coffee with some toast when they said "Juan Gonzales", I exploded in anger, complained and argued whether that was some kind of prank or miracle, they replied that there are miracles no more.

Flustered, I entered the old hospital, took the lift to the 10th floor, now the orange lights were the only warm thing in the room, Juan Gonzales was looking at the night sky while the statue-for-a-friend was still holding his hand. Then it struck me, the fact was I couldn't recall that living statue's name, in fact, I do not recall seeing his face before!. I need to tell you this, because I'm good with names and faces, I can exactly pinpoint down the flavour of ice cream, the middle-aged couple where having that morning, but, this man was a fuzzy memory, a dream you usually fight to stay with you after you wake up. So I was there, next to the IV drop, about to say the bed ridden young man's real name, when they shouted at me that the contractor had cancelled the order due to some unforeseen factors, suffice to say it was an uncommon event.

After such a change of plans, the healthy one got up and walked up to the door. I was still puzzled by his nature, so I tried to follow him, but just before leaving the patient's room, he turned to me and I swear we made eye contact for a second! my heart almost stopped, he didn't say a thing, I was struck by a lighting bolt, he just scouted the room and then he entered the empty corridor. Did he see me? Did I imagine it? I shall never know, for I had doubts, it might well have passed a second or a minute, I left the room and found nothing in the corridor! the young fuzzy man was nowhere I mean NOWHERE to be found in the entire hospital!

The last thing I remember is that it was a quiet night, other times, I would have complained to the air about lacking any take-aways. Now, I was grateful, I needed to take some fresh air on a building roof overlooking the pretty lights of the urban landscape. I touched my right pocket, there was an old dry stick left, I remembered her lips under the slimming moon at sea, I remember her too well: "You shouldn’t smoke, it’ll kill you." she said, taking the same cancer stick from my mouth, robbing me a kiss. I can still hear her sweet laugh when we went for a walk. I remember thinking "yes, it will kill me" while lighting the cigar.

False Diamond

The golden edge was intact.

Every piece was left behind.

A far cry and a lost vow.

It's up; no more jolly facade.

Now I walk alone among the displays.

Hiding from the dull gray dismay.

Dry eyes are hunting me down.

My only witness is a crow.

Stomach open, red liquid flowing with rage.

The sound is dimming. An angel touched my hair.

No more sight, heart beating fast,

A last breath, no more thoughts...

Yellow Sheets

Yellow-striped sheets I can't sleep. She's looking at me. Like a tigress hiding on top of a tree.

She keeps me warm at night. She gently puts her fingers against my lips. I can't escape her white smile. She tucks me back in.

My face is embraced by her delicious heartbeat. Her touch is smooth against my hair. Little by little, I give in. While she whispers a mellow prayer.

A little incident

He was walking by the street so as to buy some bread. But a witch came and declared: "Boy, you're so lame! Let me convert you into a frog instead."

Zap! Everything went south real fast! The poor champ skipped away. To the bakery, alive or dead!

However, the powerful woman wasn't done. She hopped on the broom and flew behind. She cried, "Hold on! There's something else I must tell you." But the frog increased the rhythm and managed to lose her.

The poor frog was rushing through his thoughts. He needed the fresh, baked bread. But now it would be difficult, since he forgot his pocket change.

The little green amphibian was resting by the water fount. Until the witch surprised it and took off high on her black broom. "You're trapped, and now you shall be my familiar!" But the frog had other plans and shot its tongue into her eye.

Both plummeted inside the fount. With a single dip, the witch into green bubbles dissolved. And the boy, frog no more, took Every single penny the sorcerer had in her purse.

This is one of those days that math punch you in the face and you can't do nothing but cry.

Of what happens after

When all is done

You'll find yourself falling down.

The judgment criteria are unknown.

But you'll know real soon.

For those found guilty of pain,

Filled with hatred and disdain.

The unfathomable, hungry depth awaits.

To devour such a wretched mistake.

The lucky few will be held

By the hands of fair cupids,

To be carried away

to where souls disintegrate.

The writer would also be falling

For is a sin to imagine

The winged heralds will laugh.

And the darkness will be around.

However, those who scribe the world,

Shall be held by their own words.

Those characters whose lives have bestowed,

Will carry the writer far away from the woe.

Angels will cry in anger.

The depths will scream in hunger.

The writer will be full of tears of glee.

For not even the gods will take their iron will.