i am n; a daughter of an exuberant obstinate mother
and a suicidal poetic father.
my days of chasing moments are gone.
i am 27, but i am 17 and there are times when i'm 57.
i've stayed too much in the low, i'm naked,
wandering in a forest in a gooseflesh night
with my feet in the river and a boy in my arm;
his heart is in the air and i can feel mine pounds through my chest
... looking up, speculating love and the size of the sky.
me and the boy, we are so tired of the fire,
of the unruffled wonders of warmth.
life, is quiet. it's a glassy water. it is a long lost lust
who has neglected the reason why human needs to reminisce,
it lies in the crestfallen of our dreamtime stories.
me and the boy, we foresee phantasms with untraced future
me and the boy, we, are this casted forest's apparitions
one soul in two bodies, in a bubble. unseen,
ours, solely. ever
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