Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands.
when people ask what I see in you, I just smile and look away because I’m afraid if they knew they’d fall in love with you too.
what do you call a sphere full of idiots