When a little ice
becomes depressed by heat,
I remember your eyes depressing the world;
its inaccessible cliffs;
its who knows how many eccentric characters
dug deep in its own eyes.
Is that why
they fractured geometry with every turn?
Is it that Physics became so much more relative
when they slowed down the light of the flowers?
There can’t be an answer where no question lies.
They belong to themselves:
of each other.
They will never be mine
because I cannot bite their drama,
their country made of clouds,
their pond of lilies.
They were born as a doubt amongst the gods;
and in your body they slide
with the moisture of the stars.
You are scared of them
of their blinking that paralyzes your age,
of their blue hair
entangled in your smile.
Because, deep down,
are not yours.
They are the shop window of an ocean
where no one can swim.