Eat a peach. Riding a bicycle – it's just spring, it's raining flowers. Listening to the sea, at night, the smell of the dark. All the notebooks from when I was little. Dinosaurs, especially the diplodocus. When the fever comes. Remain seated in your seat in the theater until the last second of the credits. Her hair intruded in a kiss in the wind. The benches. Walk slowly, listening to the music you love. Boiling water on the skin. A mistake. An afternoon of sweet doing nothing. The boxes of crayons. The balls of yarn. Understand each other without speaking. Singing without knowing the words. The first sentence written with a new pen. The way you open books received as gifts. Understanding your father's speeches, which you always considered unimportant, when you are now grown up. The puddles. When a poem ends. The waiting. April. Semicolons. “Let me know when you're home.” The stacks of books. The smell of rain, the rain itself, every rain, when it rains and I rain too. Waking up before everyone else. The things I don't know. Write anywhere, anytime. The kisses at the corners of the mouth. Cut fruit. Comics. The sound of infinity sung by the waves crashing on the shore. The things that are mine alone, the very small things that no one could ever really understand, because the world is mine alone and I am everything. When a poem is born. Unexpected music, listened to again after a long time. The lights flickering. The destabilizing gestures of irrepressible kindness – gratuitous, sudden, lethal. Run. Do the divisions. Traveling alone. Geometry. The pencil sharpeners. Curtains. The vocabularies. Olfactory memory. Thunders. Exchange gifts. Choose a frame. Listen to the heartbeats. The Atlases. Windows. Prepare dinner. Look each other in the eyes, say nothing, say everything, touch each other's hands, discover each other at peace. Making love until the senses are numb. The fact that you have to learn to be born, because you become alive. Above all, the fact that everything is chrysalis, everything is ephemeral, fleeting, intimately poetic, fruit and seed of every choice, and of chance, and of necessity, and of free descents into hell to invent the dawn, to burn - to burn - bathe – in life: in love: in poetry: in myself. Which are the same thing then. Therefore wait for me in every existence, in any life, tomorrow, yesterday, now, then, always, I am being born, the light blinds me, I am afraid, I cry. Fade to blue.