Lusciously unknown

Twice in life,

pleased I’d be to pretend we’ve met,

to forget thencefore.

Just to be

the first one,

to erase any of your smile’s memories.

Then,

a second meeting,

to love again what I’ve never met before.

Since forgotten.

For you,

are no more than unknown.

And what I love is an obsession of my imagination.

Nothing more.

Someone made up,

close to real men.

Yet, always gone by faked faded wishes.

All collected.

All withered.

Besides copied verses;

all in awe,

all in vain and hopeless.

Indeed insane,

every night I were to kiss your insubstantial whole,

somewhere a place blue birds sing,

to find you once again in alien and foreign lands of dream.