Iron in the silence of your song

I have met an architect with wings.
Was it unexpected?
I shouldn't know.

The wings of a dragonfly, no feather, only steel and silver. Delicate and strong.

I don't know where I met him.
I usually (don't) meet people in this slender house of mine, in the middle of the low-lands where dragonflies meets and breeds. The light is pale and feels like fresh water down your throat, but only a little water, so you don't cough. The light is pale and the house light, white. But I didn't met him there.

I met him somewhere else. Maybe in the crazyness of someone else's mind, as irrelevant as it can be. Maybe through randomness or again, by a crack of light pouring out of the shell of life.

The story is that we met. In a new space, a space I didn't know before.
And this space was filled with marvels, surprises, confrontation, acceptance.
Laughters, cats on pianos, dead corpses of soldier, sweat, shivers, silences of steel and silver.

And the lust to be more and more and more and more.

Looking at the difference through the eyes of enlighthnment and being more at sniffing the coke of your soul. Or icing sugar, right?

In my personal history, the long history of my family, this is the equation: love=same.
So much BS. I knew it before, but now I know it for sure, that I love you especially because you are not me and should I specify because you are beautifully you.

Metal-winged architect. C'est toi.