I will live in the in-between land
where the far-off murmurs of the crowd give me company while I tell stories to myself.
I will build a hut in the fringes of fraternities and forests, where I’ll plant a garden for the deer and demons.
I will write poetry from treetops for the life of the wild and the tamed, full of truths about all the metaphors at last.
I will drink from the lakes of the forgotten dams, the concrete giving way to the wet clay of time.
I will wait for the dusk from the roofs of dilapidation. And I’ll paint the dawn from the peaks of stale volcanoes.
I will tell tales of destitution to my friend, oblivious while sipping tea made of her leaves with a pinch of cinnamon.
I will read myself that story, the one where the heroine dies, like they all do
and I’ll go to sleep in the bed I made of half-dreamed heavens.
I will live in the in-between land
where I’ll finally make friends with my own shadow.
And maybe with my black blood too.
…now that you’re here
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