she likes to hide

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sometimes she screams so mighty
that even earplugs of the sky are useless…
but sometimes she likes to hide through silences
where someone's thought caresses her wet lashes
and it bandages her sadness with kisses…
enough to remind her, — (she's loved)


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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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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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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 cafΓ©, 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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feel your love

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till I finalize my hello, you're at home, while some didn't leave yet like an empirical kind, wind down, and look, to convince yourself in the shelter of the art you can phrase dΓ©gagΓ©, [I long to feel your love]
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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, — πŸ“ƒ © 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… πŸͺ„πŸ–Š️πŸ’«  ᡏᴼᡏᴼ © KᡉᡉᡖOⁿK...
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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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unveil your love

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— An old wine… — A new woman… — New and cloudy and spicy and noisy…‽ — Suspended between desire and reserve, I want to live my present without destroying the future… — Yours or ours‽ — Since when exists… ours‽ — Exists… starting… by… now… — Do we have and… a kind of past‽ — About two glasses…πŸ₯‚ — Hmm… do you know, I've got a secret, I've made mistakes… — It would be weird if you'd not been doing any… — You're strange… — Uh… what would you expect‽ — I expect to be the first one that will not be dumped by you… — Do you think I look like the one who leaves‽ — It doesn't matter… — It matters to me… — Would you want another glass‽ — Hmm… but I'm going to see you double and I don't want to feel as if I'm cheating you, with you… — Well, we all want to drink the same wine but to have another kind of drunkenness, huh‽ — So… what are you waiting for‽ — I'm waiting for you to be…that happening which happens to me… ...
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running with the wolves

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running with the wolves of an exquisite vocabulary, knight of the pen, guided by the religion of music, it springs up somewhere in a spectacular ceremony there, dreams don't frown, because love's structure is painted obsessively about you, about me... both in a white silence splendor, dripping confidently... lust
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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 clichΓ©s. 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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