Murky Star

This sudden,

gloomy

and intermittently scorching day

will eventually end.

The walls are too thick,

or too thin

for me.

Blame the weather

for everything.

And I've been stuck for too long

in this alienating yet magnificent city,

finding no solace in the sea waves,

nor in the nights laden with scents of jasmine

and sewage,

nor in the stars

that once danced in my heart

but now are just tiny shards

of shattered glass.

Not in the deceitful comforts of the morning,

nor in the remnants of her skin under my fingernails,

nor in the sin lurking around the corner,

nor in the small regrets

following fleeting pleasure.

And here comes the familiar

and uncontrollable

anxiety,

gripping my throat.

So tight.

So, I quickly descend towards the interlocked tiles

of the boulevard

and settle on a bench.

I looked up.

A murky moon hangs above our ghost town,

and it isn't tired of it.

"Now a bit to the right," I tell it,

"Lovely, honey. Give me more of that gaze."

It had scars all over its body.

Then a star fell there,

and I didn't manage to make a wish.

And if I had made one,

I would have wished for the star to fall on me.

Once, I asked another star to be loved,

to be desired,

to be wanted.

Today, I am at the critical point

between self-destruction and redemption,

in the naïve attempt to transmute myself

from rust into metal,

from lead into gold.