true love
At this hour of whichever month,
I imagine how you take me by the hand
to walk together through that kind of time
where we could suspend horology just a little bit,
only to feel the trail of your perfume on my skin,
and the fever of your fingers, which
is equal to the temperature of my hotly pulse.
At this hour of whichever month,
the past, the present moment and
the future, are getting decomposed
into a yesterday, today, and a tomorrow,
making my moon to play with your sun,
promising that the sunrise on your side
it will play again with the sunset on my side.
At this hour of the whichever month is a kiss...—
an indestructible kiss guided from a past to a future
by your mouth, smelling like a flower of the moon
to consume my saliva, felt like a frosty sun, scented
in our true love that posed as a wandering poem,
encoded in a melody, well set up to ask if at this hour
of whichever month you think about me as I do too...
