It's good to be back home. Unless lost or a place you can't reach. The lemon tree welcomes you with the gift of slow yellow weights. The furniture's cedar odor waking basic definitions, memory cells you turn on. The shades on the floor, the whiteness of ceilings, the corridors leading nowhere because such emptiness exists. At night your face becomes a reality, moon printed, it grounds the sadness of desire. My body sleeps.
© 2018, José Coelho
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