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| Portrait By Luca Ponsato |
I am not a river,
yet something inside me keeps flowing
through alleys of old conversations,
under bridges of almost-said words,
past windows where forgotten versions of me
still stand and wave.
built without architects.
Streets appear overnight,
lamps flicker with borrowed moons,
and somewhere a train keeps arriving
from places I have never visited
but somehow remember.
In the morning,
the sun enters like a polite guest,
removing its shoes at the door of my thoughts.
It sits quietly on the floor,
spreading warmth like folded letters,
and every shadow in the room
learns how to forgive its shape.
I carry people like weather
some arrive as gentle rain
that teaches dust to dance,
some as thunder that rearranges the furniture
of my confidence,
and some as brief winds
that only touch the curtains
and leave no address behind.
There are nights
when the ceiling becomes a sky
and my bed a small boat,
sailing through galaxies of unfinished plans.
with no punctuation,
and I drift among them
as if it were a rare coin.
Time does not walk here;
it grows like ivy.
It climbs the walls of memories,
wraps around photographs,
softens sharp corners of regret,
and turns abandoned moments
into green places
where I can finally sit.
I have pockets full of invisible things
the smell of first rain on warm dust,
the echo of laughter in empty corridors,
the weight of a hand I once held
for a second longer than necessary.
These are my currencies,
spent only in solitude.
Sometimes I become a window
transparent yet separating worlds.
People look through me
to see their own reflections,
not knowing
I am also looking through them,
searching for a version of myself
that feels like home.
Dreams visit without knocking.
They rearrange the furniture of reality,
paint doors where walls once stood,
and leave before dawn
like considerate thieves
who steal nothing
but leave courage on the table.
If you listen closely,
you will hear that every breath
is a small arrival.
A tiny boat docking at the harbor of now,
unloading invisible passengers
hope, fear, wonder,
all stepping onto the same shore
without conflict.
And when the day ends,
I do not close like a book.
I remain slightly open,
a page lifted by night’s breeze,
because somewhere
a new sentence is already walking toward me,
carrying its own sky,
its own city,
its own quiet music
made entirely of breaths.
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