Here I am sitting in the heat of my romanticised metropolis again, trapped in a mechanical traffic, and inhumane emotions.
This is the place where homeless men and billionaires eat from the same junk yard.
(In an exhausting month of March, not even in the rain)
We breathe smoke more than we make love; we spread laughter like raging war.
The only thing that I hear in my sacred asylum is the ticking clock.
Symbolising my sudden fear of emptiness and dying hours.
After all, this is the corner that consumed a huge amount of my catastrophic life.
I've learnt to raise my hands up high like a hooligan in her Saturday night ritual, yet I've never learnt to let a person get away from my own guilt.
I saw the fire in his eyes, burning the whole atmosphere of his mind.
We did play for a while. No. Not a while.
Three years full of consequences of getting burnt fingers and steamed mouth.
Until the flowers of April bloom from the core of our filthiest thoughts, and their roots sleeping in the depth of my lungs; forcing me to let myself slip away from his Mediterranean embrace.
I am the book definition of catalyst; I set you free.
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