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Poem

In the silken night, when the moon hides shyly
behind velvet clouds, I hear your call in a whisper
lost in the melancholic howl of the wind,
and I think of my true name, the one you wish to know,
not the one given by my mother, a silent memory of unfulfilled dreams,
but the one that says I lightly touched something divine,
that I lived too long in the sticky abyss of addiction,
that I was a diver of heights, piercing
the thin veil of reality, that I was once a magician,
a weaver of incantations, an alchemist who found gold hidden in the sunset.
We danced among the floating clouds of eastern mornings,
when the sun caressed the horizon with gentle rays,
my suit of light glowing in shades of yellow, orange, and red,
and we lay at the foot of summer night, in chocolate darkness,
with dew shining like stardust in your hair,
and I was the shadow of a cloud flying above Yellowstone Valley,
on the cold mountain wind's wings, vanishing
over the near horizon, a dream lost at dawn.
This is my name, everything and more than I can remember,
I know you will keep every moment, every thrill, every magical instant,
for my name is written in the stars, in the dance of clouds,
in the call of the night wind, and in every whisper
we share, a name woven from the threads of time
and unfulfilled desires, traveling through memories
and dreams that never fade.

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