how can i not stop to see you, your hair sparkles like sunshine on clear water. i think i hear you reciting stories of kings and the psalms on your miradors. but i never see your lips move, in the garden of the orange trees.
– previously posted here –
afterlife in a glass of orange juice
a pierce at the centre of my chest
i thought the sounds of the world are not that amazing
and i grew tired of my own reflection on my mobile phone screen
i was an itch that would never go away
the ghost in your grandmother’s picture
and all the while you stay still
soaked in your bathtub
rubadubdub
i like stories
ending with somebody drowning
and smelling good
– previously posted here –
we used to look outside
commenting on the many lives passing by our window at the corner
thinking we should at least have a bit of fun while we waste ours
though only secretly
and in our big little heads we wanted to believe
take pride even
in having total control of the process
we thought this wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t let it
and so we told stories
none of them ours
held on to the neverending,
hopefully like the night,
glasses of cheers
laughed sinister laughs
pleasant to our heartless ears
while inside
we had the suspicion this could actually be
love,
prayed hard for it,
then washed it down with
jokes
they brought tears to our hopeless eyes
then one night we held hands under the table
another we tried to look more drunk than we really were
(after you kissed me in the rest room)
and now we are looking in
at the dusts sitting in our chairs
and we walk
home
– previously posted here –
*roughly means “this space is closed & sealed”
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