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…