Fino ai miai palmi

Water, still trembles while
silohuettes words, water is a
hold breath, a solvent; water eats
the ink and take the secrets.
I tell the bones of my heart, the back bone
straight to love.
Let my skin become paper, i leave every
drop of my petal blood, i leave your
name in the background.
Looking stone, little stone, lime of the
feeling.
Little red traces, so you can find me.
To my palms, open constellations.
The word is memory, a spell to be
done again and again.
I touch with my digital pulps embroidered
pages, fayry materials- this existence of
ours that prolongs it in to be pronounced
alphabets.