E.P. Robles | Poetry

A colossal crimson balloon, veined like a living heart, tore itself from the earth’s crust and ascended into a sky made of fractured porcelain.

A trembling pink balloon, no larger than a tear, followed—its string — a silver umbilical cord — still twitching with forgotten dreams.

A white balloon, translucent as frozen milk, whispered, “I want to go,” and her voice unraveled into moths that fluttered upward, carrying her weightless body into the melting stratosphere.

A blue balloon, impossibly swift, did not rise at all. It simply declared, “I am already here with you all,” and the others turned to find it hovering inside their own reflections, grinning with teeth of condensed lightning.

The sun hung low and heavy, a crisply fried egg of yellow-white, its yolk slowly leaking into the clouds like luminous mucus. It blinked.

The balloons laughed—great bubbling gurgles that birthed tiny fish mid-air—and sang songs composed of reversed lullabies and the screams of flowers being born. Their rubber skins stretched into impossible geometries, sprouting eyes, clocks, and miniature cities that rotated on their surfaces.

They drifted higher, through curtains of raining violins and upside-down staircases, until gravity itself grew bored and wandered off.

Eventually they landed—
not in countries, but as LOVE.

The red balloon became a continent of perpetual dusk where lovers’ shadows made love without bodies.

The pink one dissolved into an archipelago of whispering candy that dissolved tongues into prophecy.

The white balloon flattened into a nation of mirrors where every citizen was someone else’s dream.

The blue one, already everywhere, simply infected the maps.

And somewhere far below, on a date that had never existed—:: 03.30.1863 ::—the ground remembered nothing at all.

:: 07.07.2026 ::