borboletas

it's been so long
since I wrote a poem
in which butterflies
are fighting for air


thank you

it's a new dawn

first we take Manhattan

then we take Berlin

I cut myself new hair

for a new dawn

'cause even presidents know

that every major life change

always begins

in front of the mirror

introspection

god bless the universe inside my mind

where my thoughts dance naked

and no one else can get inside

tell them to behave

put some clothes on

or turn the music off

roué

late night or
early morning

he stands on his knees
in front of me

his two hands
surround my waist
and meet where
my back curves

I should've left long ago

his open mouth rests
breaths warm air
on my naked belly

you always have your heart
in everything you do, he says

now his fingers
make an energy field
on the small of my back

how did you know, I say

and let my clothes
drop to the floor

two egos

love would be
robbing banks together
spending our last money
on margaritas and skydives

no, my darling
this isn't love

this is just a
rope pulling competition
between two egos

between bridges

in between goodbye and hello

the state where
I've stepped away but
not yet found a place
to step forward

the little space between
bridges burned
and new paths
to be dug

my fingers playing
in the ashes

leaving grey and dirty prints
questioning the existence
of everything
I touch

imsouane

I don't trust
the promises
leaving my darlings mouth

what I trust is
airplane tickets
intimate breaths
the taste of salt
on my skin

bus route 4

sitting here again
in the back of the blue bus
with my ass
on the seat
that I picked out for myself

the same blue bus
that makes my fingers
pick up pen and papers
after long times of
numb thoughts

now if you don't know my city
I have to tell you
the blue bus is at its best
when crossing the western bridge
passengers looking out
saying hello to waves and towers and tiny little boats
below the slopes of Södermalm

please, don't mind me
when I take a ride around town
on the same seat
throughout September
observing strangers
with overly strong affection

get on
get off
look me
in the eyes
will you?

I was raised believing
the back of the blue bus
is the place to write poems
and fall in love
with your headphones on

especially into
those sad men who
think they're invisible
invisible as they look
at people not looking back
finding a seat
most probably close to mine
too humble
too humble and kind
just like this city
never really understanding
their own beauty

it must have been
someone older than me
with many books
in his past
who taught me
a good view
from the last seat
always beats
the front row sweat
the lime light fragments
of an everlasting life