Four months later, still waiting,
for a kiss on the forehead...

You were lonely, staring at the walls
or the telephone screen, drinking...

There's something about waking up to your words,
or waking you up with mine, hearing the softness...

Food stalls align the street, the smell
wafting around old ladies collecting tin cans...

Breathe on my skin, slowly,
let me relish at the way your chest...

I was painting my nails and listening
to rock 'n' roll, something about insobriety...

We were jetlagged by dreams,
trying to solve our time difference...

In all of Paris' grandeur, from Place de la...
to bakery-scented boulevards - I searched for...

She speaks in monologue,
even ignores walls...

We're the speckles in concrete, some necks
more immune against the two-faced sun...

Click
... clack...

Don't expect to open up my chest
with your bare hands, it takes more...