hay fever (507 days of spring)

It’s almost as if summer's exploded two days ago and covered grass with some make-shift flowers - flowers that won’t survive even for a week. I have a hay-fever and can’t really see on my left eye. Tears – meaningless but very salty – are dripping from my chin. I don’t have any tissues so I am trying to ignore them.

I start to count. It’s neither my heartbeat nor the passing seconds. Numbers appear and fade away on my inner eyelid. Three hundred. Shadow that more or less resembles a human being appears in front of me. “You are late”, I say so quietly that even I don’t know if I have managed to make any sound. Three hundred and one. In that exact moment all of the whys and whens actually escape me and it is necessary that I keep on counting - that’s the bright red thread that won’t let us get lost. You might be saying something but all that reaches me are muffled sounds in the background; I try to smile whilst navigating between the numbers. Three hundred thirty three. I think to myself that you are a little bit like this pollen in the air that surrounds me: you bring so many colours to the things around me and I can nearly see them, I can nearly smell them - I am sure I would - if only I wouldn’t cry all of the time. It’s not that I haven’t tried, for a while I’ve even taken pills for that and thought that maybe, just maybe, they could stop my tears. Three hundred fifty eight. It didn’t go as planned. I have to take a deep breath to fill in the spaces after all of the words I don’t want to think out-loud. I nearly lose my count. Three hundred ninety eight. By now, I can hear it in your voice, you are getting annoyed with my silence and you talk even more; you talk even louder. Four hundred twenty eight. I’d reply but I can’t stop counting: I need to count for us - our red thread entangled between the trees; red thread that can show us the way out from this wooden maze. Four hundred sixty six. Even my own thoughts have become blurred now. We stand opposite each other as if preparing for a duel and it’s only our shadows that hold each other’s hands. Four hundred ninety nine. I start to rush through the numbers and by now my right eye is also crying. Five hundred and five. We kiss good-bye. Five hundred and seven.

pocket dial

he pocket dials me

from his date

my name does start

with the letter A

so maybe in a way

it's not only the phone's fault

but also alphabet's

it takes me a moment

to realize

what just happened

I listen to his voice

that sounds different

round

and plastic

(I can also hear her

but I try

to leave her faceless)

I hang up

for few minutes

I don't move

close my eyes

and think that probably

all of that is a bit funny

I might be also

remembering that time

when we spoke

and I've told him

that I can't do this

anymore

I send him a message

that he called me

just a moment ago

by then

I only hope

there will be

some truth in his reply

what I get is

"oops sorry"

all very true

I guess

Samson

I've cut my hair

a while ago

but I didn't make you 

choose

perhaps that was

my mistake

or maybe simply

you didn't understand

you've cut your hair

a week ago

such a loud and final

full stop

the visible sign

of cutting me

just under my knees

so I can fall

and if no-one listens

- and no-one does - 

there will be no sound

in respect to my mouth

it will stay silent

just the same

maybe some day

they will tell

beautiful stories

about all of that

and later on

immortalise it

in amber

(that's a nice thought)

or maybe - 

- maybe they won't

SSRI

all my friends

tell me

that I have less

of sharp edges

since I take

the pills

it's different from

the inside

where I need

to put on post-its

that shower

should be done

at least every other day

and that pyjamas

aren't acceptable

in the public places

but apparently

I have less

of sharp edges

and most of the time

I lack the energy

to even think

about

the suicide.

I guess

that's a win.

fish

my lips moved several times

during that night

trying to form the shape

of the words I needed

but the sound

didn't arrive

so I was just standing there

more like a fish

mute

suffocating

with the oxygen

and with the cold hands

you held these hands

later on

trying to warm them up

and pretending

not to see

that something broke in me

and now

my Inside

is slowly leaking out

onto the pillow

my lips moved

for the last time

- a sound appeared

a short and a very quiet

howl of the animal
that hurts

you can live with that

there is this white fog around me

and it makes everything

so unreal

and so distant

I guess I don't care

anymore

even if I am sad

and I can't really tell

because I am so far away

from myself

but -

- even if I am sad

it doesn't really matter

anymore

simply because

nothing really matters

anymore

something hurts a bit

in my chest

but it is also

not very important

a lazy thought appears

that it's probably

my broken heart

- it's OK

you can live with that

wubbalubbadubdub

1. my head is fragile

and I don't want you

to cut yourself

when it falls apart

2. I'm not in love

with you

not because I can't

but because I know

then I'd have to leave

(I'm not ready yet)

3. when you have bad dreams

I kiss you and stroke your hair

it seems to work

in the morning you

never remember

any of that

4. at the night time

I sometimes get scared

and start to fall

if you are next to me

you whisper to my ear

that it's OK

5. you are not in love

with me

because I am full of

red flags and lines

not to be crossed

- but you hold my hand

when I fall asleep

(that's a lot)

6. we are bad in waking up

and leaving the bed

there are still

few months

ahead of us

7. I like your eyes

they are green

most of my favourite things

in life

have green eyes.

otters (I have cut my hair)

when I said

I am going to cut

my hair

I tried to tell you

something

but maybe

I was too vague

now it's too late

and with my head

so much lighter

my heart got

so much more heavy

and there are

no more words

I can now

comb my hair

for the very first time

in months

and I feel bad about it

I stay up all night

because sleep felt

so much better

with my hand in yours

dawn

it's already bright outside

and I really try not to think

about all of the reasons

why we should call it off

instead I try to think about:

elephants and how they never

stop growing

parallel evolution of

homo sapiens sapiens and 

homo neanderthalensis

how to fix my bed

so it doesn't scream

in its wooden voice

when we have sex

when it doesn't quite work

I try to think

about something ugly

about you...

but the only ugly thing

I've managed to find

is the fact that you

like me

sky turns

into something

soft and white

I switch off my phone

in the one

final attempt.

morning

chlorophyll

I watch it through my fingers

dazed and unfocused

so much like me

sun strokes my nose

and that's the most intimate

thing

that happened to me

in months

fingers of my left hand

move a bit

that's me

- stroking the sun back

I stand still

and consider becoming

an euglena

...

heart

now you

touch it

press on the

softer part

lick it

step on it

bite it

let's see

if we can

break it

...

my friend and I talk about love while playing basketball in the dark

we forgot how to love

at least

it seems that way

of course

it may be

that all of the past

horrible things

that happened

to each of us

just taught us

to be cautious

(to be scared)

to demand more

(to be scared)

to be not so

god-damn trusting

(to be scared)

...

three points for me

at least that's what

you say

I can't see

very well

we both

have a sip of the beer

your ball

...

or maybe

people actually got

so bloody boring

and not very

interesting

and if so

that could mean

it happened also

to us

(we are the people

after all)

...

you score

and we drink

a little bit more

...

so nothing happened

in a while

few meaningless

affairs maybe

definitely

nothing more

definitely

not love

(at best

a like button)

and we forgot

and un-learnt

and devolved

(deloved?)

...

ball goes somewhere

to our left

to disappear

in the night

we finish

our beers

and follow it

(we are

disappeared)

6th of the wasp

it's been a year

[another one]

there are even more

marks on the wall
next to my bed
I have made
365
more plans
for after
the end of the world
[just for us]
seagulls always try to
spy on those
but I guess
it's OK
I don't think
they can do us
much harm
[I feed them bread
on some of the mornings]

for once in my life
I am patient
and calm

sounds

usually sound

is the first one

to come back

(only after a few

breaths)

hum of the

car engines

noise of the

birds

your

heart-beat

I let fingers

of my

right hand

move

to that melody

the left one

forms a fist

I try to place it

somewhere

between

us

if neither

of us

will speak

for long

enough

we might

fall asleep

equation of the straight line

.

everyone knows

that through

any given
two points

you can draw

a straight line

that connects

both of them

that's why I try
to make a point

though - admittedly

it might be

not an obvious

one

or maybe

it's just us

hidden behind

a lot of words

and even more

kilometres

it snows
with fuzzy logic
changing
the landscape
into something
white
soft
and undetermined

.

may day

we interrupt

quiet hours

of the night

with messages

full of

unfinished

sentences

that may

or may not

mean

something/

/nothing

later on

with the first

sunlight

comes

sleep

that neither you nor I

can describe

we don't need

alarm clocks

I have

ambulances

on the streets

you live

around the corner

from the

fire station

with the noise

of the day

and the illumination

of the sky

everything can only

be

what it exactly

is

it may

or may not
be

why we

stay

so

silent

winter

I'm starving

in a sleep

when my eyes

are closed

my bones

try to pierce

skin on my:

shoulders

elbows

chin

something moves

within

your face

I think

you are

smiling

I try to mirror

that movement

but it feels

like traversing

through

the arctic cold

without the map

I surrender

I'm starving

and I'm so cold

with eyes

filled with

black water

with hands

hidden in

pockets

you let me

climb on you

and hide

under your

breath

winter.

winter is coming.

birdy

it's late

(with flickering stars

above

and no moral law

below)

I hide behind

the cigarette smoke

and some vagueness

our eyes

don't meet

because

I am starring

at the pavement

I know though

that your lips

are like a wave

drawn by children

when they draw

a bird

there are

dark shadows

under my eyes

and my fingers

move constantly

you think I look

like a wounded

rook

...

you give me

a glass of water

and draw the curtains

so the daylight

won't

scare

me

halves

everything

feels light

and shapeless

only half here

only half real

I touch the skin

under your eye

it's white

nearly colourless

my finger

digs deep

until 

the red drop

appears

it changes

your face

into something real:

you make

a sound

- this sound is

as red

as your blood

I step back

this way

I am also

only half here

only half real

the night when we went outside to watch the skyline with cranes

that night

your eyes

were touching me

even before

your fingers did

you said

you want to

look me in the eye

to be deep inside
in

every
possible
way

we spoke about

some difficult words

unable to say out loud

those that are

so much more simple

later on

we've just 

became silent
in

every
possible
way

(morning)