what's wrong with this orange
I'm flipping papers as I browse souls
I didn't understand anything you told me tonight
as if this is the night before an after
I feel cheated and I feel like screaming

you sit at the window and look through eyelashes
searching for something between thoughts buried in dust
you are a variety of general full of ashes
with his chest full of tin-medals and  of rags and all kinds of ticks

what's wrong with the orange
unfolding your eyes you're asking that like a meteor struck by Alzheimer
among the crystals of ice and whiskey
and intractable mess accumulated in so many years
as if the counter would be a black hole
and your eyes

your clothes forever shabby
and a Beatles song
it's never going to fade the cigarette smoke
and the paper-bags with things left at the door
life is a kind of aunt that bequeaths a book
with yellowed pages which lets old pictures slip through it's shrouds
of her kissing your cheeks when you were as tall as a palm
now your bones are cracking and you move like an old man outside
but your clothes stay as light
as a wing built as a step in a stair
a bridge over a water filled with songs

and I feel awkward and sad and confused
you kissed me on the cheek but the lips are still wet
and it's been raining for two days since
in outskirts the wind does not blow but caresses 
your hair, my sorrows, the thoughts

what's wrong with you
and I'm whiffing the pillows, the leaves