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December in Canada and messages about hats in broken languages made me feel like skipping home while giving me a reason not to. Dreams made real by hands that seemed to come straight out of mine. The stars finally had a meaning, written by the nights spent awake because reality was better.
What a special person.


I remember fear and heartbeats that I confused for earthquakes. Days spent in silence because “I deserved it”. Frustration, exhaustion, just a bad day: A million and one excuses because a special person wouldn’t do this.

Spring rains on Tokyo and on me, and in me: “How cruel to love something that death can touch”.
Some days his eyes were blue, on others, they were green. In the end they were blind and forgetful. The cherry blossoms fell gently on the bite marks that you left.
A special person wouldn’t do this.

Monologues spoken to a pedestal whose top I skyrocketed by the silence I kept in kindness: A familiar trap, unlike the ones you set down while I was making tea. Humming a made-up song, I unknowingly stepped on them all, each trap a rock to be thrown later and my name written on them as if that was the only way of knowing they were meant for me.

Bears can be taught to tiptoe
But they are beautiful because they are free.

A special person wouldn’t do this.
No, Dee...
A special person,

el 13 November 2016 en Jamaica 719 Vistas


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