Do not think of me:
i do not exist.
i won’t think of you,
your tongue, and your kiss,
your hands, and your whispers,
are only my dreams.
I don’t think of you:
caressing my hips,
my heart is
still recalling the dizziness of the music and the imminence of your skin and the inflections of your voice and the scent of your breath and the gentleness of your lips and the precision of your
White nights in Bucharest
I also wanted to tell you something else:
that in front of my window, a tree is in bud,
and it rained and the night is clearly cut,
not the love is the answer, i
