Poeta

The wind is still whistling in this forested balcony.
It is whispering a never ending story from the land of the gods.

Your hand is buried in mine,
And all your warmth.
And you're still drawing lines between
My white lies, and my unspoken frights.

I keep forgetting how much you have saved me
From the ants of the metropolis .

The broken chakras,
And the growing hearts.
You're still speaking in vowels,
And cards.