Our house, is your house.

Placating my soul,
with the last cohiba,
I climb the stairs,
to see Saint Mary,
although dead,
she still sees right,
and says,
hate is a burden,
forgive the one that went wrong,
and open your heart, again,
till it explodes, again,
make some room,
for the light to enter.
She also said something else,
but I didn’t hear,
gave her a kiss on the head,
and sucked up my fear,
you passed right next to me,
and you dropped a flower,
I ran,
put my hand on your shoulder,
and you looked over with a smile,
it just reminded me that I’m alive.
Days after days,
I called you ‘home’,
I felt safe,
waiting for the winter to come,
We were in love,
blindly, as they say, but
you could see the wound on my hand,
so you showed me the path,
to the arab bath.
Girona, you are more beautiful than
I can accept.

Thilleli G.

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