There are things she does
I don't even know
what they mean,
Like her secret e-mail address
"ultramarine"(@james.dean)
Where inside she wears
dresses and sunglasses
unseen by the eye of man,
Dancing before my eyes
on the other side of time
again and again and again,
Like a leaf
jumping from a leap
to another,
And like a lonely Christ
dancing on water
with the ghost of Marie Magdalene,
She is always there
on the shore of the lake,
always reciting for me
every time
a poem I hadn't heard before
putted down in a cold autumn
by the torment of Blake...
There are things she does
in a manner I cannot comprehend,
as letting me predict her coming
by the rain, the whisper of trees
and by the waves of her scent,
Never here, never here,
but always hugging me
with the vagueness of space,
In a story she gives life to
in the sensitivity of a tear
so vivid, so vivid,
you can almost taste.