The Room Next Door

I opened the door and the room was covered in snow, pouder milk white veil guarding the rails, smelling a gardenias. The mantle was freshly decorared in beige on top, bedazzled with gold. The dining table was rectangular, embroidered tablecloth with stripes on the edge, adorned by yellow tussels. The wall told fiery songs a capella, lyrics to the melodious space. The seats were brand new, puffy on top, legs crossed, embezzled with potpourri, the color of pinot noir. There were flowers sprinkled in every corner of the room; yellow here, beige there, white here, cream there everywhere my eyes landed. It was a sea of sedative colors, a veil of undiscovered pound, antidote to my amen of glory, rival only to that perfect room mom gave me for my sweet sixteenth but joly to the girl next door.

©️Angela Aguiar



Beneath the cruise controlled breeze, rides the uncertainty that rules her. Ceremoniously blinded by the gust, she quietly chases to license the storm, frantically craving to bury the indiscreet and ill defined twister.

©️Angela Aguiar


I want to find a name who will give me a hand, carve my eyes, contour my head, dress my stomach, feel my heart and dance me a mean tango.

I want to wink at a robot who will pump harder then the midnight train, zigzag faster then a gazelle, flash the colors of the rainbow and mimic the hurricane rain.

I want to smile at a body who will read me stories, corner me at the photo stand, whisper me a melody and buy me one mean gelatto.

I found him yesterday on the artist table. Curly hair, luscious teeth, colourful feathers, standing slim and tall, dressed like a roaster in aluminum foil, a comic book character of sorts laying under a pencil of an illustrative page.

©️Angela Aguiar