One slim glass of coca-cola iceless on wood mueble by my pillow where I rest my skin in motionless tranquility so as not to sweat in summer afternoon
adobe tile room,
150 pesos rusty golden coins, a receipt for tomatos, and old Motorola accompany the dewy glass as I sit
and occasionally miss my city as she drifts through my head like breath or waves,
and sometimes her memory even pounds against my bones like veins of blood trembling with heartbeat,
she will always be fuera de la realidad, for her hospitality is rough like pavement and her heart a jungle of chaos;
but her Dream is like roses, an oasis to my soul’s reality.
her promise has fed me, no matter if I fulfill, for the wind has always pushed me where I need to be…