we would speak between the lines, little words from time to time, and sounds that would mark our steps, then our ears full of silence and coming down the hill, we would remember the good old days.
*first published in June 2020, edited in June 2021
not matter what
on Sundays
I am bored
in the perfection of
the suspended time
just like when
I was a child 
Listening to the night
narrating its story through
the open window
the sun has coloured
my petals in a summer color
I was hoping to finish
between the pages of a notebook
in a bouquet on the fireplace
but time has made my petals fade away
the wind made them fall on the ground
that I will feed and
in the spring will come back