As everything changes overnight, I praise the breaking of promises. Whatever love wants, it gets, not next year, now!
I swear by the one who never says tomorrow, as the circle of the moon refuses to sell installments of light. It gives all it has, whatever that is at the moment.
How do fables conclude, and who will explain them? Every story is ours. That is who we are, from beginning to no-matter-how it ends.
Should I use the pronoun we? The friend walks by, and bricks in the wall feel conscious. Infertile women give birth. Beauty embodies itself.
Those who know the taste of a meal
are those who sit at the table and eat.
Lover and friend are one being, and separate beings too, as the polisher melts in the mirror’s face.