The last page of our tree
lies inert on my floor,
Love defeated by customs.
The vacuum in the mattress
best accompanies your absences.
Between you and me lies
triangles are imperfect
the words are hollow
incommensurable spaces,
so near yet so far ...
We buried our springs
gobbling principles
greedily devouring
without thinking about tomorrow.
When the games are forgotten
in the drawers of the tables,
lie desires
at the foot of the excuses.
We are witnessing inert
of our own extinction
hopelessly shot
towards boredom and laziness
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