Friday, 30 May 2008

In her dream, her lips open to a ripe death: is it really you?






In his sleep, he awakes. He sees her hair waving beyond the blue horizon, into the black of the gold, he sees the face that spoke the words. He sees her first and last kiss on the angel's mouth.
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3 comments:

  1. swiss30 May 2008 at 13:07

    i find as i get older that there is always someone there to pick up the fragments. it's not the loss that gets you, it's the repetition! but that's only if i'm feeling pessimistic. mostly these days i feel like the seasons. things come, things go. i'm just grateful for the sun!

    p.s> left you a tulip

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  2. cristian27 June 2008 at 13:06

    excelent! (fara alte cuvinte.... mi le-am pierdut pe drum)

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  3. Unknown19 March 2009 at 00:03

    Her beauty aches, like being lost for words just when they ask you for your final words...and you have none...you owe the moment which eludes us all...

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