Those late dinners with their ineffable tease
The last novel before leaving the ruins pale gold as green tea
Walking down the dizzy stairs
Passing through the first rain of the season
Leaving his vertigo for the labyrinth:
“The melancholy patterns of the attractive skinny tie.”
The phone call that we missed in the humid summer afternoon
A typo on the airplane ticket
Some artists sell the souvenir. Some opportunities come back and forth.
A solid maroon red tinged with almost transparent blue.
Those dresses and secrets hidden in a timebox. And the whispers.
“You are my muddiest whisper”
They get unknown pleasures from soft and empty compartments
On the street men and women contemplate the frailty of jealousy
As they witness to their delightful tragedies
Lugging their insecure jokes
Rather than bumping into some staring eyes
They do not talk of becoming even
But yes — friends stood each other up
Boxes are reserved for some air
Those men and women surely wander on the street
