The Longest Summer

You twitch the wings of your nose,

stand in front of a door and call my name.

Yes, l would say.

I would always say so.

Every morning l wake up

with two doors closed in my eyes.

Daylights are fluid and bright, as usual,

trying to melt parts of the world together,

though in vain, to smear the dryness of me.

As usual, it always fails.

In the longest summer of my life,

I shut all the doors and wait to say yes.

While daytime is so ample in the north,

on streets my friends are only black,

strolling all day, murmuring to themselves

or to me.

Sometimes they shout.

"Are you alone?"

In the longest summer of my life,

I shut all the doors and wait to say yes.

Light leaks from the clouds,

guttering down to my feet,

as one glimmer of your body lines

slipping under the door.

In the widest white, I bow down to touch it.

As always, l fail not to get burnt.

You twitch the wings of your nose.

When some burning water oozing

out of the calling of my name,

I hear a letter unsealed is coming

out of the crack of the door.