Like watching butter slide down
a warm piece of bread
just before the act of
tasting
and your fingers rummaging
through its crust and
infinite crumb of
zest-memories;
(Shall I name it?!)
ahead an ocean of fireflies
twisting your voice into
French, Italian, Slavic,... vanilla
scented pages of the
book
you're not reading
but keeps assaulting your
inner mappings of
emotions
stolen from the moments
you dug your hands into
the ground
and slowly allowed the humid
terra-cotta
to pot your soul
and then you vanished
again
into the deepest of your
named name
like begging for
one last
rescue.
©
2014, José Eduardo Coelho
