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He left,
the heavy burden
he carried on his
back would not let him
to move forward,
doubts and more doubts
were the company
on his journey.
To the silence of his agony
he preferred to embrace himself,
only a question
would give the right colour
to the oil of his doubts,
but on his back he carried
with his bitterness.
He was leaving on the road
pieces of his composure
and before arriving somewhere
he decided to return to ask
the question that made him
agonising.
Who do you write to in the
in the early mornings when I cuddle
to the pillow and you're not there?
I looked into his eyes,
I kissed his heart
saying to him very softly,
it's the moment I have
to inspire me and write to love
to love,
to that love that you give me
at all hours of the day,
the one that inspires me, to write poetry to you,
to write poetry to you.