A rhythm of strawberries


I looked at a moment for the perpetual window of the trees, I thought that I had found an idea of a feeling drowned in the innocence.

A soft brown music tempers the volcano of your lip.

Now you are not. A sonorous and classic juice distracts the desire.

It was only my heart that thought, while the mind felt the rhythm arisen of your strawberries on my skin.

In short I feel the lack of your presence. The food that your perfume penetrates slowly on the ash of the three days.

The lack of a pillow to the side can light a storm in the body.

A light music tries an eddy for your lip in lack.

Now already you are.

A poem.