I wasted my nights writing constantly,
till there was no lead in the pencil,
while the heat from the lamp on the nightstand
drove me senseless.
I imagined myself in a large auditorium,
in front of a single person.
Plaster fell from the walls of the corridors
when I started reading my verses.
I wanted to make her love me,
(as if she hadn’t loved me otherwise)
to make sure that she wasn’t bluffing
with her bottomless loving eyes.
I wanted to make her yield to me,
and force her to profess her love for me,
as if she refused to give it up willingly,
so I had to perform a robbery.
I wanted to overtake her with lightning
and thunder, giving her everything in me.
So I wasted my nights writing;
I didn’t know how to love her simply.