You are the waves at sunset,
breaking the heavenly glow that is shed on our mortal skins.
You are the grass at night,
whispering against cheeks,
as if it wanted to tell me unnecessary truths.
When everything is washed away,
with hard tears and angry thunder,
you will stay,
because you are frozen in the sand.
What is love,
but an overly imagined fantasy?
What is God,
but an excuse for the closed hands?
If I follow whatever lives,
do I include myself?
