the rustling of your thought immortalized on the canvas of my soul, it's like a docile whisper... • and I don't hide you... — your daily routines have deep-rooted on my joy's lips, dementedly • and I love you… [but how much I love you...?], you see, this poem, I didn't write it yet • it nested itself in your chest, and beats, [I don't know exactly in which wing], but its vibe feels in the grip of the sun

bizarrely, like a shadow of an idea in the blue moon of your thought, I've appeared without any weight, like a stain of blood, — to be felt any day and ever-more, provoked with least a sophisticated interest, for your mind is a picture untamed and me still intimidated, I dare you to find me in the atlas of your soul