ROBINSOMNIA (II)

The inner movements, 

the coincidences, of course, 

the random navigations, the many images reflected 

(the ones found without being looked after), 

the ripples in the surface of your eyes, 

the echo of your laughter flowing through me, 

the happiness when I ask you the right questions, 

the fresh wind that hits my face at night, 

bathing my spirit with something like a renewal and a promise, 

my legs taking me to the same holy places 

(but everytime with different colors), 

the red flowers in the angel's bronze hand, 

my steps forseeing or retracing your steps 

at different times, 

when the meeting is impossible 

(maybe someone one day will learn 

how to kill the time lapse, i.e. fucking delay,

yes, maybe someone will fastforward one of the tapes 

so that we can walk next to each other, in perfect sync)

the belief that you will one day climb to my ship, 

our ship, 

and will surprise me in the prow, 

lazily placing yourself at my side 

and making some remark about the wheather today, 

captain, 

or the slippery floor of my vessel, 

the belief that something beautiful will happen one day 

next to the beacon, 

the exact point where Milton and Beatriz 

stopped my heart for some seconds 

[hey, just a bit more, and it would have been the most aesthetical death 

since Dick Bogarde's in Death in Venice plus Milton minus Malher], 

yes, I cannot abandon the idea of beacon/romance, 

because it is too good, sorry if I am not humble in this, 

but there is not better privacy than facing the big ocean, 

our backs trusted to the big bulk of the beacon body, 

and well, you get the general idea, don't you, 

I navigate through sweet and salt, memory and imagination, 

lucidity and madness, tender and lustful, 

and all these words, too many will get out of the bottle, 

and will arrive one by one to your feet 

while you walk one day by the seaside.