A still, deaf moment of the night came crawling up to me,
to remind me that I kept on
dreaming of muddy swimming pools
full of ugly, small fish and fear.
A silent moment dragged on to remind me
that I still have to beat the sense of responsibility
when I walk to that hole every morning and afternoon
to wash my mouth with words that smell bad and have no meaning to anybody.
In the afternoon, I drink a cup of coffee.
One hour without work when I sit bent over and tell him
how I've never seen him but I love him,
how I'm sorry because of the darkness
that sometimes creeps in to confuse me.
I've beaten my path with a thick rope long enough to know
I don't want him to know not one inch of that road.
I sit bent over him exhausted at night,
in the middle of the deafness of the stars above
and I ask and bargain with destiny to get the most from the course of events.
We who were born under the darkness of the New Moon
we write lists that we burn because we don't wish them to be seen.
When the thickness of the night falls on me,
the solitude of a few burnt papers seems like a perfectly fit company to me.
I let him be a simple image on the wall,
floating in water, so tender and soft.
The softest pillow of them all
that tries to pull that muddy swimming pool out.
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