Poetry

I flee from these shoes
so that I could come
and meet you
And in an instance
I am scared by the innocence
that trembles upon your smile
And you
You're afraid I might not
like you

"What would you think of me",you say
"I come hours late"
And I think
If you were a minute earlier,
I wouldn't have been here 
"You come on time",I say
and go back in my shoes

The cab-driver
doesn't know the destination,
and we don't care
If it is too far
we could walk
so to trick the time to last
longer

Your pockets are empty
I put my hands in them
It is warm
This is where I belong
I want to cover them with leaves
and dirt
so that I could hide it from
other
Like a dog hiding it's bone

There are no wrinkles
on the photographs
You're always smiling on your
passport picture
Now I know why there aren't  any
on the travelling tickets
The conductor would have cried
if he ever saw the passenger's eyes
It is easier this way

You come on time
but you never stay long enough
I always miss you
and have to go back
in my shoes

The cab-driver says we're there
and I wonder whose address is this
and why he always takes us
to the station
The platforms have remembered
the soles of our shoes
and the tiny,little wrinkles on them
made by the little pebbles
on the street
The benches know exactly when we're going
to sit 
And the whistle of the train
knows exactly when to shout
So that you can't hear me say
Come back...come back again...