I miss the links between us.
The stations I will miss too.
Statuesque, like a forgotten tune
of a misfortune.
Gold-digging and bootlegging of a common sense
are too comprehensible.
Let down your defence.
Being friends is too much
for the ex-lovers,
but on crossroads of every street where we could meet
we could discover the likes of us.
Links between two naked souls in a breathless silence,
a soul roaming between tutors and suitors,
a mistress of distress
in a metal dress.
Behind every 'yes'
there is a domino of 'no',
a black key in the silence.
Judge me but never leave
the spirit
of us
shattered and broken
in starstruck streets.