You shield your eyes, your breath is compromised, strained, too
fast; this is the time of Corona. Like thoughts in my mind, your breath is here
but not, so we both keep chasing on and I wake every morning, in this crowded
room with too many things that are not mine and I smell my impertinence in the
air as I throw the sheets away from my pale, naked frame.
I want to walk with you, wordlessly through winding streets,
through all the years of words not spoken, leaving us free of a past that has chained
us down for too long.
In my mind there has always been a desk near a window where
I look out and see a moor explode in a cascade of colours. I watch you moving across
the wild, while I put my pen to paper; your breath alive (unlike now) and we
are far away from this city, far away from these days of strawberry gin and
basic survival.
These are the days of Corona and I keep silent, but my heart
still beats next to yours…
