self-inflicted wounds

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in my thoughts, your hug bloomed on my wrist
slipping me in the calling murmur of your blood

delicately, in a sentimental future of our shadows
we dance in the rhythm of our pulse and longing

our kiss on the moon's corner in a caressing suit
heals the self-inflicted wounds created by waiting


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nightmares are fond memories

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the longing's light is on, — about an hour will let me chill out; the mental pictures urge, — i'm faced with all you'll do to me; frissons and butterflies rouse, — my eyes utter what my mouth can't; in love with the present, — the moment lives me, i live it, too; your joy was to please me, — nightmares are fond memories; orgasm tacit in unison, — you smile, i smile, — sleep tight; ⟮my un p'tit je ne sais quoi is lured to the poetic Stockholmsvy⟯ trick
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are you looking for someone to love

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Any of my written pages cover you with my blanket of stars set in music's transparent vocabulary, noble adapted to show me the way of loving you for both of us and to get lost in the poetic experience of freedom and the pleasure dialect fermented in the mystery of what we want to hear, so delish translated by our lips that love to insult any part of our bodies with fiercely and gently kisses, till we get lost in sweet translation raised and sunken in vulnerable feels of our dreamt clichés. But if you don't know why are you looking for someone to love, then any page of mine is blank, exactly like your endless cloud, cambered by your doubts and indifference, so able to defame any soul, by provoking it to scour and pick up the pieces.
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telepathy

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morning rouse, — bizarre dream of last night, — forgot Les Fleurs at the coffee, — interesting Les Litanies, — followed with Lord's Prayer darkness, — identical as is a lit side; the beauty of ugly, the ugly of beauty, — Baudelaire explained; night and day, — unseparated; increasing, decreasing, — equally; the love, — is there or is not at all... defines a weakness, — artistic creation; a pray, — telepathy works... come closer
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yAyAyA

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Can you talk without having any knowledge about the one who supposed to listen to you passionately and conclusively? Doesn't it feel as if your voice puts your brain in a quandary? All you want is to read the magic of the stars. And yet, to do it, isn't essential to gaze into the eyes of the one who's loved? I found wondering myself, even as tempted, I imagined the lips of this enigmatic one, who's gazing at what wants to hear, while without getting pressured, it experiences all the songs' words. It's a vibe as if it reads me, wanting to identify on which side of the syllables am I sleep, and which word must be breathed... That one is dulcifying by itself with poetic thrills, ruled at a pub, somewhere on a roof known as the blue café, in a «yAyAyA» realm comparable to milky-way, as if I know what it's like to be not to be.
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volume one

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to balance the imbalance of some days, verify your soul volume,— one portrayed and discreetly arranged by your heartbeat with the temperature of your blood and mad pressure of some detouring stories systematized by the texture of your mind to rise the sound speeds of my whispers inapt of uttering, I love you I miss you... to balance the imbalance of some days, ain't nothin' wrong to check once more the timbre and vibration of my feelings
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bizarre... i don't know what it is… but i love it

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Bizarre how the artists hypnotize me with their own voice and instruments. Bizarre, 'cause while they coddle their own devices, they take care to beautify me, painting me tunefully with their music, using the magic powers of notes and words, while simultaneously, they tell their own ravishing story, inspiring me to create, — 📃 © un p’tit je ne sais quoi ✒️ Bizarre, because the music, like any art, affects the way you feel, or I feel. Bizarre, because creates and induces certain emotions. Bizarre, because no matter what I'm doing, or you're doing, we're gonna make time to take a look at everything that makes you or makes me happy, while music will amplify tastes, colors, compositions, and shapes. Bizarre, because the music is the diacritic mark for everything in anything, and because depends on music for the way my story or your story is gonna sound ToDaY‣‣‣ t o D ream A bout Y ou‧‧‧ (me ‧‧‧ ؟?) I don't know what it is but I love it… 🪄🖊️💫  ᵏᴼᵏᴼ © KᵉᵉᵖOⁿK...
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and you, my love

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Today everything seems to be nicer. Even I seem to look much more beautiful. I woke up with the mad urge for bonbon, chocolate with almonds, and berries syrup. I've perfumed my hair with peonies. I dropped the sweetness of rose on my lips, and I took the happiness in my soul. Today, life just invited me to dance, and I accepted, murmuring, [and you, my love]
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you next to me

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slowly, my thoughts' wings, flap before landing on your senses, — [that's why you feel some thrill] how I move, it's an impulse kind that cause you to think of me, — [AWOL, some say you're scatty] music you listen to isn't faux pas, isn't irrational directed to you, — [its aim is to get you next to me] y'know that thrill that makes you look like a scatty one… [well-well], you just got how much I love you
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one million stardust

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peony buds blossom in my thoughts their delicate scent emanate through your eyes the sun, like a virtual luv3r, spreads velvety petals all over sedated, my lips narrate in the dialect of one million stardust cosmic words paint the skin of your dream in the hue of my shade your mouth tastes any part of me using the moisture codex of love Alien codex by The Wandering Caretaker
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me you

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the perception, me, you, the disappearing action yet my disappearing action isn't your perception, but a speck of miraculous dust out of the universe called love, a hereditary molecule from my DNA combined with the essences of all good addictions in encoded information just to tingle your spine
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