In Dreams

In dreams I always know
that walking beside you
there is so much road ahead,
so many places to see,
and that breathing air that carries your scent
is something I wish would last longer.
In my dreams I can feel the earth turning,
and I know
how fast the moon moves
in the sky of two people lost in each other's eyes
with nothing better to talk about.
Some moments, though, seem too big to fit in a person's memory.

Every morning, like someone who spent the whole night drunk,
in disbelief, in a room whose loneliness I can't measure,
its walls covered in lists of musts I don't know the use of,
in a corner of the world where I can't tell where in my life I am,
with no time for the sun to run its hand across my face,
I wake up —
and the truth is a breakfast
that some days, between the rush and the fear of missing the bus,
I forget to eat.