Poetry

Have not crossed the street 
in many years 
to greet you. 
 
A slice of moon 
leaves footprints in blood. 
Maintaining the perfection 
you start giving names to trees. 
 
Paraplegia: 
you start dismanteling the life 
in search of romance with death 
for immersing the dreams. 
 
Take hold of my arms 
I want to invent your portrait 
in sands of nocturne. 
 
Drink the milk of silence. 
It is dark, but soothing. 
Go to sleep.