Insomnia

The wind is singing outside
its summer song.

I have been laying here
drugged by your smell of warm skin.

I can feel the rhythmic pumping of our blood,
yours precise like my swiss watch,
mine stumbling like a jazz syncopation

I want to be outside
singing with the win.

Flying   getting tangled in the branches   flying
running mad
untamed.

I will miss

Shopie Calle, Les Dormeurs

Wrapped in the sheets
I follow with my fingers the shape of the wrinkles
drawing the traces of your missing body.

In this bed of the size of two oceans
something is missing...
your bones lay in other shores,
your smell imprinted in some other's pillow,
         only time traveling I may be able to reach your warm.

I miss your flemish hands around my waist...
cold feet and giggling good nights...
your smile under the covers...
our fingers touching

Tonight the sound of the wind on my window
will put me to sleep
I listen, then I feel your fingers running down my spine,
as real as the branches caressed by the wind
singing a loving song.