Sightseeing Lydia
The calculation of your vocabulary seldom exceed the hours of daylight, when what is more important to you are your hands that map the shapes into your eyes. Your certainty of a pictured smile puts some clothes on my shame, the voice of your imagination makes me blind sometimes. The island you made from crayons and lemonade, the little things the ear cannot tape, the bedside stories on lazy Mondays. Such notes you unfold without the tones of any color, has been just an illusion you’ve replaced with the vicious view of reality. I can’t contain simple feelings that falls out of place, like the easiness of your ways. Without eyes, you levitate with what you’ve drawn inside your head but I’m sorry darling, the world is not any easier than what you’ve interpreted it. Being sightless calls for another jury upon where I have to stand to guide you into civilization. Being optimistic would only hurt everything else in your cerebral album.
