It's Tuesday and I miss you
as daily
like every night
as every second seed of nostalgia
I do not write (and you asked me)
is just my way of breathing
when evening falls
inexorable
on September illusion
my breath in the shadows
on a keyboard sterile
night all-encompassing
and my eyes lining
thousand villages of memories
I love you
and I'm not proud
just want to pass
a Spring time
and white longer
a nightmare
