As everything changes overnight,
I praise the breaking of promises.
Whatever love wants, it gets,
not next year, now.
I swear by the one who never says tomorrow,
as the circle of the moon never agrees
to sell installments of light.
It gives all it has.
How do stories end?
Who shall explain them?
Every story is us. That is who we are,
from the beginning to no-matter-how-it-come-out.
Those who know the taste of a meal
are those who sit at a table and eat.
Lover and friend are one being,
and separate beings too,
as the polisher melts in the mirror's face.
