I write with a drink,
the words that I sip
and pour them down all over your hips…

I forgot your name,
how does one say when you bring water that turns into wine,
I shall call you Alice–
it suits you as one that still lives in a wonder,
how can that be?

As I did not learn your name,
at dusk I shut blinds and locked up the door,
we did not have a dog for we could not choose a name
so each time it asked we’ve fed him blue dust
and then just hoped…

You are a little girl, you wander a lot,
your steps are not measured but my sail wind is,
and your tears paint red
a whole sea has changed,
before going to bed…

I asked the skies for wings to fly
so branches came out of my two eyes
and each time a nest opened my chest I felt I could step on a cloud;
one day they left,
children of mine, to age and build up the same…

I speak days and recite the nights
with leaves that fall under the weight of so many stars,
and as you put your back into the ground
I kiss your skin and hold you into my arms….

And I start to drink
a bottle of the words that I fear
and I’d be soon drinking the sea…