love letters #poem


i am looking over your love letters

my hands are shaking

winds are trying

to take them away from me

bury them

into the depths of the roiling ocean


i am fighting the winds

i am back with you in that place

palm trees born from violet skies

white drapes covering adrenalized lovers

i am laughing

follies of love

your teeth leave painful marks

on my shoulder


winds funneled through my heart

push me into the ocean

salty waters corrode my nostrils

stingrays puncture my arteries

a church bell tolls

your letters

where are they?




i will walk on Via Dolorosa #poem


i’d like to be the sounds of waves

which crash into a mountain on an island

i want my pain to wash ashore

a naked pearl extracted from its shell

still agonizing in your soul

i’d like to be Cassandra and like her

to utter prophesies that will come true

in times of war and of despair

i’d like my voice to rip the sky

to shutter our world of luscious mud


love me for a single night

like you’ve never loved before

bite my wrists and tear my clothes

and in the morning

i will walk on Via Dolorosa

my feet will stumble on a cleat

my lips will kiss dried blood

from a handkerchief


in the in the middle of the street



imagine:  TeodorLazarev/Shutterstock


in the season of my sorrow #poem


in the season of my sorrow

barren branches cry like birds

scrolls verse desperately something

who cares about verses anyway?

the hands of an old city clock just stopped

violet hills are raped by bullets

children are not told bedtime stories

hungry eyes aimed at my dress

you say i’m not the one

i’ve always been

i cannot see new moons

which bathe my skin in gold and coriander

you’re right, my love

for in the season of my sorrow

something’s old

and something’s borrowed




melt me #poem


my love,

dawns are breaking in your eyes

virgins with unplaited hair

climb the mountains to the cave

where your songs

the fortunes tell


how your fingers touch the chords

how my heart swells at your sight

how your kisses burn my neck

how the mountain splits

the sky

walk the roads with your guitar

spread your fingers on my skin

i’m the part you’ve never played

i’m the one you’ve never had

find me

in the solstice of the lovers

in the breaking of the bread

lock me

deep into your body’s scent

melt me

in your tears of despair

and our love will never end



imagine: Ben Roman/Shutterstock


Destinies #flash fiction #short prose


Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.


With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.


None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.


One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)



you love me #poem


you love me

like dolphins love to swim in warm and shallow waters

luscious humid silhouettes of the aquatic world

your fingers touch the texture of my silky skin

like priests in darkness the new testament

solemnly touch


you love me

says the royal palm tree in the garden

which every morning waves to me

i lost my golden earrings and i found them

among the crushed carnations spread on our bed

the night in which Mendoza wine fermented our destinies

into its scent


you know

i’ve never understood why you love me

the Howard Miller mahogany grandfather’s clock has stopped

somewhere it’s winter on the mappemonde

lost paradises hide in stones of silver bracelets

why did you come?

and if you came

why did you leave?




in the city made of stones #poem


in the city made of stones

winds play chords of violins

thighs made of Carrara marble

yearn the flesh of the young girls

tired lizards climb a wall

the forgetfulness of time

your hands bury in a rock

my warm body

my bright eyes

i go down with a long moan

in the marble’s ebb and flow


in the city made of stones

the next morning

grass has grown



imagine:  Dmytro Vietrov/Shutterstock