So you watch the sunrise sinking, and she's talking in her sleep.
A dream of how alone she was
tomorrow when you keep all those promises to someone in a mirror
you will find at your parents' house in 1989.
Terrorized by the ruling party: calendars and commas.
Small request, could we please turn around?
So you whisper your arrival walking backwards to the door.
Wonder briefly what it is you're hesitating for.
All the streets lie down, deserted in the darkest part of night,
to lead you through the evening to the light.
Pulled along in the tender grip of watches and ellipses.
Small request.
Could we please turn around?