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There is warmth in my gaze

you have left on my skin

innermost heat within,

a zeal so vast I'm living with.

Just when it seems right,

the greasy silver glimmer cold from a

rainy morning walk; can't get to me.


London is now endowed by

the drizzle of rays that will soon enough land

molded-glammed as a rainbow; by whom's hands?

The heat fits the wind better than the air does.

The streets are tied to me like any ball is to Messi's toes,

the bolts of my walking pace in space

are beautifully kept in the same mood.


I'm soaking in the fur I don't wear.


Sweet affidavits of a celebrated presence show

how our validity can overcome any shape of the soul.

Listen when you can to the steady pitch of birds descanting in the wild

declaring haven openly above there, down far in the Countryside house. 


The potion I drink from your edged lips evolve usually

into something similar like an afloat piece of sand

that has been seized to be a stamina peek for life,

and I can take some whenever I want. 

The vitiligo that was, 

disappeared and stood moving around 

in the depths of the Wasteland

the confusion belongs not to me,

but to the wind.


We shall firmly bear to the hope that embodies your mum and mine

and the story we write of the kid who lives inside us,

who knows how to sprint sleeplessness through the winter corridors.

Do you remember when you ran to the ocean for the first time?


I'm unfolding a bubble bath with my chest. 

In a riddle, the mastership of love has its plans 

inviting us to be twofold wet.


There is warmth in your gaze too 

and if someday we don't seem to recall,

take my hand and feel the hot rise.


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