inside church

stoned, I stare at

two twin kolivas.

I think I should’ve added more sugar,

but they will forgive my mistake.

they usually did or, if

they frequently didn’t,

never found out.

both knew keep secrets and,

in the end, I learned so well

to keep them too.

plus, sugar is a serial killer,

has malefic behavior against pancreas,

kidneys, heart and liver.

hmmm, not so many people around

‘cause isn’t a special day,

saints celebrations, when crowd

gathers for some kind

of party.

between these painted walls,

the holy building resembles

with my old block’s room,

completed by rock bands posters,

with my vintage bookcase,

wallpapered in newspapers cuts

of 80’s and 90’s albums.

while priest sings his sad songs,

I find myself so fucking alone.

boy, we stopped communicate

for one week or more or who knows,

but are those your arms, behind,

embracing me tight,

not to fall

down or apart?

maybe…