true love
At this hour of whichever month,
I imagine how you take me by the hand
for walking together through that kind of time
where we could suspend the timepiece just a little bit,
only to feel the scent of your perfume on my skin
and the fever of your fingers
which is equal to the temperature of my hot pulse.
At this hour of whichever month,
the past, the present moment and
the future gets decomposed
into yesterday, today, and 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...
incalculable kiss came from the past to the future, —
and your mouth smells like a flower of the moon,
and my taste is like a frosty sun...
and true love looks like a poem wandering
through a melody... — set to ask if at this hour
of whichever month, do you think about me
