Before I was just a curious soul, now

I’m a burning house, where you’ll hear

the soft crack with every step in the

ocean rain, I’m . . . i’m a city of course,

with the blue waves, wandering from

street to street, I became a door to let

you come over and over again.

And then there’s autumn, you came

in the rolling sound of silence, lips

as white, skin as pale, fingers shrouded

in paintings, ¿quién eras tú?

You’re like a beautiful violin assessment

of night, here my walls: gripping so tight

shake up with drums, but it’s not cello

here you won’t hear the music of hollow

knights, entonces, ¿quién eras tú?

You came, you flew back in the winding

change, I’m still waiting as a door to knock

on the door, to blow a horn for another

sound, sages of lovers or dancing ballerina

I was already a tune of your unfinished song.

Before every night, there’s morning:

so when the light shutters after the dew

drop, I know morning came in rooftop,

how come you’re attuned to unfazed bone?

It’s morning again, sands crashed

over the seashore, I’m tiptoeing,

standing in front of the mirror,

bathing in the flames once more,

¡di, di que eres mía, sólo mía!

my wall crumbles before the sea.

I tie your tie in another rain,

I’ll think of you in every city van,

before you tap on my window chain.

— 23rd January, 2025.