Nowhere to be
and no one to really know,
passing hour drops the last second in a warm cup of tea.
Silence stares at me bringing back grandmother’s hands full of freshly cut chamomile.
And here she comes again.
The midnight silent apparition, so warm and caring,
the person I know so well.
The Mediterranean sage hair falling over her shimmering face,
she brings mint in her smile, and mellows my worries with her lavender eyes.
I still regret when I made her scream. “You remember that gecko I caught and put on your breakfast plate?”
Innocence is sinful.
“You remember when I hid under the blanket of your bed the whole anthill?”
Sinful is innocence.
The hour drops the last drop of tea.
The cup is empty.
The full cycle silence reflects, but the two rising suns lead to an unavoidable doubt:
Is this the place where I should be?
Getting the dress of habits I am ready to leave.
Did I forget something?
Somewhere I lost poems buried under the harmonious piles of rhymes and thymes.