Zywa
In the afternoon hammock
It doesn't matter
to the people in the street
that I look at them
if I exist
there is no need
to help me out
through the window
waiting, tired of waiting
back in the chair
back in time
lost in possibilities
of old summery desires
to be touched by you
while the horse is snorting
your innocence
unconscious and untouched
by my fantasy
your boredom
that seduces women
and keeps me awake
as I rewrite notebooks full
of poems, to have them tasted
by your blushing lips
in the afternoon hammock
But I don't want that anymore
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