.lara is bored

Recall the first word. The word you listen. The first taste, the taste that melt against your lips. The lost expression you used? And after everything, you do recall the midst of things. The midst of many things. That beautiful unused dress, the caused kiss of your will, that moment, the other, the beyond that place, where you were, the actions from so mean less shame effort. The midst. The midst seems to be important. Perhaps crucial. You post-it. You acknowledge it  with pens and medias. It seems to be a place of actions where you find yourself trapped many times in a row. It does makes sense, this midst. The midst. Quoting: «The virtue find itself on the midst » How they say here this old corps next to my address. Because, you see, the first time is never as special as expected and the last unwanted of event, isn’t it bitter the end?

In the midst we do not honor when it started when will end. The midst. The half. The word itself lacks of main revenue as an empty bored actress. In the midst you’ll find forgiveness, reason, amnesia and why not peace? From the first verb until the last one which never comes late. As you know, maybe, the midst is the roof of the ones who find happiness closed doors.

During my days, there is no whistle, the streets are quiet, the world it absent from itself. Is empty of life, of breathing – is silence. Between an avenue and the main street you sense the difference there, there She is, softly nitroglycerine, no munt, no eye. Its name is spelled all over. The body, the one, is degage from the others, of the other and others. Is a sticker of damaged cities, countries and fallen empires. Maybe it belongs to its own lap where it won’t consume itself. As a tourist of no-one’s land, my lady-journey, my lady-no-penny, my lady broken-romance, my poetic femme de misère.

Her urge of hunger is something else. And if she stays lost against your belt, glued, founded into your white genetics, is because my new friend, you didn’t chase her away.

My heart behaves like a spoiled soiled kind. A creature of awkward awareness that shut national rational behaviors down, drag them into a corner a mislead kinder.

My heart has no free soul, is an arc lost in masochism perhaps. Is a muscle of a ballet dancer, an athlete in a confused lauded crowd or an atheist looking for his own faith.

My heart behaves like a sinner all around you. It smiles like a serial killer draining your walls on his finger.

My heart is just a silly child that find his own private garden in your eyes. A lake to wet its legs and rest in peace on a cloud of mind. – How would it taste the skin of your grins?