I read poems about love and it was not so for me,
stuff about the moon and the smell of roses
didn’t ring a bell.
A poem about love for me describes the waiting
for the moment to pass the butter from his hand
or light that is singing when he opens his eyes.
How a stone dies of loneliness
before the day decides to end life in silence.
Maybe I should not read a poem to the letter.
I must try to smell the sweetness of the moon
and be blue in the light of roses.