Humid and sticky,
transparent darkness grows in branches,
slowly and carefully expanded
its tentacles, to the buildings,
in the morning of September the First.
Rarefied sunlight that
perpetuate the British buildings,
growing on the rising stairs under my feet,
to everyone.
Wind of the season blew in my eyes,
sliding in between the darkness,
that coexists with nothing
but ratified my memory of August 12th,
where you and you and you stand there,
peaking in through the classroom glass.
My hair slide down into your warmth,
blending and dissociating into acidic electrolytes,
where you, watch, sense, and
light a fire,
in the 4 am dream.
There really isn't and wasn't anything existing, after all.
Wake up, in the weeping eyes,
where you dismissed me, along with the morning clouds.
Without my sight, the murk covers the only fluorescent
item. Or organism, or organ, or just particles.
In the adolescence that used to shine,
I encountered the mystery,
opening one small lock of the room,
where everything exists but without *beep*.