Rinzu

I look for you in a sea of faces
in a city that hasn´t met you
being alive is music
dramatized in fiction.
Dim lights trace a shadow
on the peeling whitewash
or watch grey hair
bowing to the commands
of years yondering in space.
Moon is a lamppost
that stalks my bedroom
draped in white curtains
evenings once were leftover breadcrumbs
falling off the edges of plates
that wanted to be licked clean
of rice, curdled in curry.
Mornings one were supported
by old wooden window frames
sipping tea from steel glasses
heated to boiling point.
These days are smiles
uncounted and unassumed
jaws don´t hurt
a face now wears beautiful jewelry
in salutation of a lie
that the soul
has plagiarized.