XXVII

I would have adored you on a Sunday
without storms,
without clocks,
without history.
With salt-stained hands
and a heart still free of bargains.

I would have loved you
in a whisper,
so I wouldn’t wake my demons.

I wouldn’t have written you verses.
I would have whispered them in your ear,
like a secret curse
that can’t help but sound tender.

I would have loved you without fear,
like someone who knows
it will hurt anyway.

Because for once,
love wasn’t war.
It was rest — before unleashing hell.

 

I still have to wait 72 hours...

 

There are words that don’t arrive on time,
yet they still come with a soul warm to the touch.
Like lost letters that, when opened,
still taste of truth.

Note:
Forgive my delay in replying.
Sometimes life —as demanding as a capricious muse—
pulls me away with deadlines, sleepless nights,
and books that beg to be born.
I’ve been finishing one of them…
but I return now, ink still wet, and heart intact.

Isidora