The grey-eyed woman took off her shoes
when she entered the house,
mumbling of the fantastic
and of the man with the red scarf and of his paper-wrapped parcel
of obscurity.
Her sneakers left wet footprints on your rug
and her fingertips whistled against the laces
as she removed them.
She visits every so often
and leaves you with far too many questions
and with oily whorls written on the windowpane
as she watches the sooty snowfall
and traces the path of every flake with her fingers.
The warmth of her skin covers the glass in shards of creeping fog.
You sit beside her as you both talk
to no one.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Tasting the Colours of Ice
Poesiabreathe in my pulse and try not to suffocate in its irregularity A collection of poetry and prose dipped and coated in prosopagnosia's waxy aftertaste.
