The stars

Poetic Prose

I look out the window and talk to the stars, I put my words in the breeze and I hope they rise to the top of the sky. I talk to the stars because they look at you, because they listen to you. Every night, under the glitter of silver, they witness your laughter and your games, your passions and your cries.

They tell me about your sad eyes, your look of murky waters and deep melancholy, fixed on the horizon, watching the endless darkness visible from a starry sky. Tell me of the autumn that has entered your eyes and your breasts, your fragrance of perfumed jasmine and nostalgia, your hands that tremble, eager to caress a loving face, your lips tired of giving kisses without love, your face Of angel and of your first wrinkles.

I ask them to shine for you, to hear your sorrows and at night whisper tender words to the ear. I ask them to count your heartbeats and to illuminate your nocturnal walks and your loneliness, to love you as I love you, and never to leave and look at you with sweetness.

In the breeze of the night the dead leaves of November dance, the crickets sing while I chat with the stars, thinking about the hours they murmur, and the love that fades under the shadow of oblivion. Only my window and the memory of those stars that once saw us laugh under their bright, crazy passion.