*Rescue*
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
