Oh the glory when you ran outside with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied and you told me not to follow you.
A poem is the palm of the ocean,
Closing.
Rowan Ricardo Phillips, from “The Beatitudes of Malibu,” Poetry (September 2014)
You write shitty poetry that
makes me feel nothing, but maybe
that’s just because none of it
is about me.

That’s all I wanted to say.
Sorry. You don’t deserve this,
but I want to be spiteful and
you’re my favorite person
to bring back from the dead.

So now that you’re here,
I’ll take my mouth and bury it
next to yours, pretend that
there wasn’t already
dirt in my teeth from the
last time I did this.

I don’t know what lonely is,
but it tastes like you.

rafaelveo:

Un cuento en la calle.

Pintura mural en las calles de Guadalajara. Mex

2013.

Una niña sueña en un colchón flotante, comienza con un sueño ligero y conforme se va haciendo más profundo nos cuenta más acerca del otro lado de la vida que nos llega al cerrar los ojos.

I started writing
because I wanted to be with you
without being
with you.
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