I was in a red dress, already torn and splashed with wine.
She lived on 4th and A, the year 2012 sounds like the future,
but it is the past that made it's own density; I mean destiny.
I cut my finger, she thought I was mad at her.
I wasn't, I was in love and left to question everything.
Books and musics were our burdens on roofs,
in stairwells and meeting on benches.
I got scared and stupid, you got mean and good at vanishing.
I still have a hawk in my teeth that I caught for you.
Even up to this day, I am not sharing my poems, because I think they are good,
but because sharing them is part of our eternal communication process.