I'm as sweet as a sin in your eyes, when you hold the fasting of me demurely in your soul and mind loving me till God and looking humbled for the light to find a smell of the saint of myrrh. I'm as sweet as a sin in your eyes, then, when you're waiting for dispensation, that dispensation for love without knowing if it'll come this sweetness of godly thought with the smell of books and innocence. I'm as sweet as a sin, and you… you gotta be a chocolate Jesus looking in the sinner inside you knowing that it is not a miraculous icon or healing source that could heals you of me... me............................as sweet as a sin…

How many "so-called friends", do you have‽ Did you even try to buy them? Did you care? Did you hear their palaver? When d'you knew that by gazing in their eyes, they'll go away? ⋯·⋯ Will they go away in the claws of their own sigh, inhaling and exhaling their own hate's whisper, wrapped in a silent shout, on the route to hell, at the disappointing call hour of a hungry moon? ⋯·⋯hmm… At the disappointing call hour of a hungry moon, I saw night's finger migrating on the sun eyelid, too determined to find out the loners' unhappiness. All were attired in the garment of lovelessness.

Dear YOU⋯yOu⋯YoU⋯ — On a certain day, at a certain hour searching for something from the sacred place you live your life, you will stumble on this page. I will not be begging your pardon for it, but politely, I will inform you that once you get here, you'll be taken into a parallel future out of the past, then back to your future. You'll be letting the fairies that exist hidden in a corner of your mind to complete my stories, enough to beautify your soul, wrapped already, in my love… (the best…)

I've placed some memories in one of your pockets to be found by chance or why not, even to search for them, when you'll want to see, again, some shards of love, with which once I caressed you mapping to you a magic party... invoked seductively with some itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny positive formula, so nostalgic in beauty sealed and savagely gathered at a moment, when you, like me too, were all I needed [psst... you're all I need still...]

sur toi te… te bisous_èse, te Fa dièse, te Sol bémol, jusqu'à Mi, jusqu'à Si, comme j'te Ré, même si à te... te tra-la-la, jusqu'à La, jusqu'à Do, et trille-le-le jusqu'à t'plonger en Fa majeur et vaporeux à j'te Sol jusqu'à frisson en tout bémol, partout dièse, à flots de lunes, tu tru-lu-lu tant gentil, à l'aide de mille chansons d'amour en force sa clé, actif surtout, moi, sans arrêt pour répéter, — (sur toi te… te bisous_èse… …)

❝ • if you can stay close to me and we can still be different • if the sun illuminates both of us without our shadows overlapping • if we can be “ourselves, us” in the middle of the world and together with the world crying, laughing, living • if every day we'll find out who we are and not the memory of how we were • if we give each other without knowing who will be first and who will be the last • if your body will sing with mine because together it's joy… — so it will be love… ...and will not be in vain to wait for each other so much.❞

My Own is beautiful as floated perfume is the other day she seemed an opening flower My own is beautiful as Angel's flesh in springtime the other evening all the sun was on my heart Save from my owns lips, there is no caress the spirit's parks are decked below her lips In clamor, she is the Temple and in the crowd the verge the welcoming of my own, the happy season. The other morning in her sadness was winter's night the voice of my own, the fairy of sounds For all my life she is an opening flower My Own is beautiful as resurrection is

I think I met you to learn more stuff about myself, — to discover new feelings, new heartbeats of my own, even to change my style, bringing new emotions to me, since the experience with you is a trip to time with each thought of mine in your thought, while our gazes are getting infiltrated in a touch and a kiss, identically like the charm of notes, so virgin so rational irrational

the music exposes some vibes; the sinner seems a pliable saint; a spontaneous saint, designing an epical, unfading experience, provoking me to invoke you… tacitly to lure you to my zenith, to consume my burning hollow