Two tones irreconcilable,

Double tide in retreat,

Momentary perfect reflections that slide between two panes of dancing glass.

Personal wounds and mystery,

Are the invocation to the mouth of the Lacuna.

Temporary respite,

Where two hearts in hope form the raft that carries inwards.

In every other encounter,

Breathless and grayscale,

Trying to swim home.


I could search your eyes for years,

Like deep pools of a most complex gift,

And search around,


Whether this kind of vital duality,

And the salty taste of could be and maybe,

Are the perfect conditions,

For me to feel the sea in my chest.



The swim was worth it.




Soft resistance.

Opening the door, still wet,

Smooth, gentle and disarming beauty.

Apologetic of your image and of your effect.

You smiled downcast in the street noise,

A perfect display of your soft resistance,

To the stories that make you look away so often.


Even after attempts to extinguish,

Through the slow rust of being pushed outside yourself,

You forged an outlet in raw talent.

I hear you.


I dared to suggest in tongue what surrender could mean for you.

Arching in seductive apprehension,

You folded in right angles across my line of sight.

Holding your eyes in mine,

Was the most tender rescue mission available to us.

A lesson in intimacy that cares little about where we came from,

And everything about what we deserve.

And you deserve more than you’ve been bound.


I did what I could in twenty five minutes.

Part wished your hands could be more creative,

But a familiar alloy.

I understood.

On leaving, whispered into your eyes – even pleaded,

That you knew your right to pleasure,

That you were allowed.


Afterwards, I spent the whole day dreaming,

With eyes alive in vital orange,

That we’d have that moment again.