Caldera

Bathed in cherry light on a night veranda,

A song is playing deep in the heart’s agenda.

On her lips lingers wine, ripe in the drama,

Then kissed his white shirt, left her red memento in alpha.

Your narrowed eyes lie in a foggy veranda,

Each glance holds a fracture, a storm in stanza.

I’ve slept inside your trembling savanna,

Whatever burns lives in your silence's samba.

A lighter flared, my past in its aura,

Your breath still hiding in the smoke's mascara.

Even if your name fades in my para,

You're still quiet at my soul's frontera.

Vanished whispers wind through the flora,

Searching for a mark in a mirror’s aurora.

This isn’t love, it’s something rawer,

Bleeding like blood on the skin’s tora.

You forgot your eyes at the last aurora,

Moon cries alone at a silent agora.

You won’t say my name, not ever, cara,

But the rose stain still remains on my white shirt's flora