As the blue sun appears under the right
and the red sun appears under the left armpit of the sky,
I feel that what I will leave written here is unimportant.
(I enjoy the ease of this little pain that I have to deny.)
I write secretly, so the stars don’t see
that I am glad to know the heavy earth
will never flow away from us, beneath our feet,
so we can relax together and not watch our words.
Thank you for the walks under the moon you spared me,
and those sunrise meetings unshared.
Thank you for loving me like this,
for you feel love, although you do not know it.
When something happens or something does not end up happening, I spontaneously read it as a sign. Does it make me surrender to the flow of life or does it make me passive? Somebody wrote in my childhood diary that the most important things are those that are yet…