I didn't hear you coming
so are your steps so light
like the cat's
entering the dawn
skirting my contours
for sleeping.
I didn't hear you coming
inaudible
between the bells of seven
when someone wakes up
on the streets
shaking
and blind.
I only heard the wind
crashing
from eternity against the glass
and the open door
waiting for you.
I look at the hands
the crease that time forms
that he never stopped to look at them,
to contemplate
the strength behind the fragile.
The lines
what are the cut
between much and little;
everything and nothing
rising victorious
about the pain
to cross the dry bed
of the life,
the stones.
There are flowers on the balcony
but no one smells them
caught in the plastic trap
and nothing seems real.
Just the hands.