I miss you: the unique tone of your words,
the high and low notes of your voice,
the way you hold your wine glass
– how I adore your rough, handsome fingers! –
the shape of your smile,
the way your shoulder blades stick out,
the angle of your hips,
the length from the bottom to the tip,
the subtle sadness in your eyes
when I place my lips on you,
dance my fingers around you,
feel the furthest point of your body
under my tongue, leaning
against the back of my throat, and then
your hardness fall between my softness,
as my flow of life blends into yours.
Yet my memories, my deepest ones,
started one early morning
when you said hello to me,
when you were so gentle,
when you were still the unknown,
closer to my heart than you are now.
The more we know about each other
the further apart we get, even though
we have become more casually comfortable
with each other’s presence, the growing intensity
of my emotions,
the endless, exhausting questions
from the part of me
that longs for what we cannot be
sometimes I feel my words falling off me one by one and I cannot catch them and I can only watch them
like that rainfall that
cannot be stopped
over the roof of my apartment
and I get lost in
the growing absence of you
it consumes me
reaching out my hands
only to see fingers hanging in the air
you’ve never held them
I wish I could dream up the warmth of skin
but my imagination has its limits
I feel helpless in my crippled poetry
you are already forgetting me
and I, not sure what to do with my dying love for you,
get up around 3 a.m.
and make myself
a cup of hot milk
there is no tomorrow
only here, this warm whiteness,
sip by sip
the night drips
out of my eye sockets
contaminating my milk
I imagine there’s a kind of love
in which you can’t let me live
because you love me too much.
Because you think
death could freeze time.
Because you see
nothing else could stop time
You want my memories of you
at the moment where things are still good
before I could watch you
being consumed by your monster.
how I’ve known them.
They smell rain from a far distance,
watch the clouds in precise anticipation,
catch the first drop and raise to their lips,
and it either turns sour or sweet.
When they know the rain will go foul,
they tell themselves to make another round,
to seek more rain, more rain, and more rain,
until they lose their conscience and become vain.
When they know the rain will be sweet,
they do their best to hold on to it,
knowing it will not stay forever,
but rain chasers despise the laws of nature.
Once I joined their force and began the game,
and I found my first sweet of rain.
I tried to preserve it, like all the chasers,
then it was gone, like sweet rain always was.
Many raindrops have touched my lips ever since that day.
Some sweet, some sour, yet they never stayed.
And somehow it is still quite hard to forget
how I felt after that one left.
It was a freezing November night,
one in which sins melted into life,
when he lay down by my eyes,
whispered to my neck,
are you ready to write?
I thought he said die, which was the same to me.
We pushed the world away and let ourselves be
poetic animals that had found the perfect mates.
And all night long
we made poetry.
Come, as the night is not here for long,
and I shall vanish in the morning,
shall forget all with the parting of my eyelids.
I will stay with you for as long as you still remember me.
And in your mind, this all makes perfect sense
no matter how twisted it appears.
Love surpasses all imperfections
including your gullible logic.
We should go
deep into the forest and sea
of unreal colors,
where you and I would be together forever
until the sun comes up.