It is one of those nights
when you can hear your demons,
you can stare into those luminous eyes
and you can experience the fight of genetic explosions.
The choice,
the choice is there always
but this space of stocked ways demands only the fight with silence.
There’s fire somewhere
you are going to burn there with a subtle sense of freedom,
the prelude of long touches that comes before the act of becoming a aesthetic slave.
There’s a lot to this night that shreds you to the tunes of the sunsets,
which became a memory just because you had a hand to hide…
The darkest of sands are fragile in their own shares of solitude
and some nights you prepare to fly into a tripping portal
and you find that it no longer matters if you are going or leaving.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Jennifer Guyot.