Night had fallen.
That hidden painter had it easy.
I gave him a brush dipped in nostalgia.
I gave him the brittle whistles
that shiver in my stroke.
I competed with all the colours:
my body was sad
like all the autumn leaves;
I shut all the sunsets down
within this cup,
on this chair,
on this table
which serves as a pillow
for my thoughts;
I dived into
the curtains of a murmur,
into the protection of the blurred
I was the loneliness itself
but I needed to be even more alone.
I wanted to fit
within the silence of a frame.
That is why I called for that hidden painter,
I called for the sweetness of his childish palette;
I called for those eyes that look at you
from the rain.
I called for the protection of that canvas.

(But I pictured myself alone
in a bar
in front of a mirror).

Did I say night had fallen?
It was day.
My body at night,
disguised in the moonlight:
one must always appear to be,
to be paint.