Not all afternoons are made the same.
Remember the days of April
when the sun melts away
every coldness in the hearts of men.
I take off my shirt
and a warmth of comfort
looms among the clouds
of changing colors and shapes.
There aren’t many of them;
and as I count each tiny little cloud
against the canvass
of the vast blue sky,
my mind begins to wander afloat
in heavens along the passing of time.
At this moment,
my body is already drenched in sweat
and I begin to scrutinize
an impending chaos
when the hand touches the skin.
But not all afternoons are made the same.
A rare gush of wind suddenly
flows in through the window blinds.
The book on the table is moved
and its pages flip off invitingly.
A sound is created
like a music box to the ears.
I am poked instead by a thought of reading.
And that’s how I dance in my afternoon dreams.