A Trail to You

A drop of day,

into the memory

I see,

the gray Sunday

remains forever,

like pigments from a city

on my fingers,

the nude body

your body.

 

The streets

like an extension of breath,

I breathe

until extinct.

 

Raised

from unseen feet,

the steps are invisible,

after all.

 

But a further sleep

is never a new horizon

just a gray Sunday

a whisper from the garden,

an infant laughter

chasing another

invisible ball.

 

 

B.O.M. Imagen de la red.