The bottom of the drawer

Yarn and unraveling, a plot descending from the sky,
caramel in the silence, hair in the wind without a veil.
Between chance and wonder, a glimmer is born that guides me,
a murmur of ancient magic, reinvented each day.

I am the pulp of an instant, crushed between eras,
a juice of time trickling through the spheres.
The universe squeezes slowly, like someone tasting
the secret flavor of a life that renews itself.

And when I squeeze myself in silence, almost nothing,
I am just a brief flash in the starry night.
But in this cosmic squeeze, in this thread that guides me,
I discover that even the smallest gesture invents magic.

And there is a desert inside me, granulated, creaking,
as if each grain of sand were a dying second.
I am crushed slowly, between moving dunes,
a body of dust that the wind molds and dissolves.

Deep in the drawer of time, rests a forgotten pineapple,
sour as an ancient secret, sweet as a lost myth.
When the universe squeezes me, I feel the juice boiling,
a taste that cuts the tongue and teaches me to be reborn.

And I, upon myself, bent like light in an old lens,
a reflection that twists, that tears, that investigates.
I am stardust trying to fit into my own name,
a grain that the universe observes but never consumes.

The sand clings to thought, rough, insistent,
as if each memory were a conscious desert.
And I walk within myself, stumbling over what I was,
a traveler who carries his own trail, naked and silent.

The forgotten pineapple ferments at the bottom of the drawer,
an acidic perfume that reminds me that life is incomplete.
I am a fruit crushed by time, juice slowly dripping,
a taste that burns and heals, that compels me to continue.

And in the end, when everything bends, the cosmos, the sand, the fruit,
I realize that I am only an instant, but an absolute instant.
Me, upon myself, always upon myself, in a cycle that never ends,
a poem that writes itself, in the palm of my own ruin.