birth

I was born in the month

of falling stars

maybe my parents

should have thought of it

as a sign

an omen

of yet not determined

nature

instead they looked up

only to name

the constellations

- and once

there was nothing left

to name -

they talked about

the Theory of Everything

I was born in the year

of the rat

or

(that's what
my parents said)

 in the year

2⁶ x 31¹

- it was
a good year
(they added)

I was born.

crossing

We are standing on the verge of the pavement: less than a few inches from the street, with the ugly cubic building behind our backs. Its shadow covers us and nearly erases from the landscape. Somehow, in this fading light, in this silence of ours – everything looks like a stage set up for the judgement day. Your cough synchronises with the hum of passing cars. It’s eons before one of us decides to move. Metaphysical veil is lifted. Now it’s just a night, the city, headlights of the passing cars and us. Finally we can cross the street.

you've told me to leave you alone

the air in here

tastes like salt

and I know

it's because

you were crying

with the out-of-focus

contours

and the fog

pouring out

from your pale

blue eyes

you look more

like a sky

semi-transparent

and kind of

absent

I breathe in

pretending

I'm at the

seaside

.

cigarettes called Pink Elephant

can't shouldn't mustn't

taste of anything else

than vanilla
I set one of them
on fire
and watch
the end of the world

air smells
like a cake

tarantism

tarantism (df): overcoming melancholy by dancing; the uncontrollable urge to dance

it's a noise

inside my head

and if I could still speak

I would sang

together with it

instead I bite my lip

and move downwards

my own spine

dextra

sinistra

my arms extend

I extend into both

directions

I become

a big

black bird

with sad biddy eyes

and no song

at all

my fingertips

draw fractals

around me

I am the epicentre

I am the source

I am the explosion

I sway in the air

and move frantically

only not to fall

because I know

it could

break me

(I'm made

out of china

I have

no glue)

I dance.

hanyauku

hanyauku (df): to walk on tiptoes across hot sand

it's hot

I try not to check my phone

and to listen to others

I try to pretend

I am not waiting

for you

it's hot

parallel to the thoughts

about you

I have those

about the cold

stone

(I would first

press my palms

to it

then

my whole body

would follow)

it's hot

and I am trying

to think

what will I say

to you

but all of the words

seem small

as sand grains

and fall through

my fingers

it's hot

and the air

around us

trembles and shakes

and everything around

becomes distorted

and falls apart

everything

but you

I recognise you

from afar

so I sink
into the dune

built by myself

and try to fight

sand entering

my throat

it's hot

I am listening to

what you are saying

but especially

what you are

being silent about

***

I climb on

my tiptoes

and start making

my way

home

through

this desert.

it's cooling down.

evening

games

we always played secretly

hide-and-seek

and it made it so easy

to ignore

everything else

everyone else

you would find me

on the bus stop

I would find you

in my bed

and when we would

lost count

who's turn is

to hide

who's turn is

to seek

we met

in the kitchen

to smoke

a cigarette

and -

- rock

paper

scissors -

your turn

I sometimes blink

in the Morse Code

all this important

things

that I can't say

in case you are

watching

I hide face

in my hands

rock

paper

scissors

- my turn

still

I look at you

and try not to blink

my eyes are getting

paler

you try to smile

it's a little bit

off

and misplaced

I realize

that now

I am mostly eyes

and you are

this smile

without means

to communicate

we become

a still nature

all that is missing

is a fruit bowl

*** (I was trying to get drunk all afternoon)

I was trying to get drunk all afternoon

(I could have done it with someone

but was drinking alone)

it's after midnight

and I am not drunk

I am still on my own

and I have mastered

all of the tricky parts

of being silent

...

I drink more

too stubborn

to give up

to the illiterate

I have never thought of you

in this way

sliding on the well-known

clichés

I have so many times

missed

this one solution

that you might be it

that you might be

the beginning

you might be

the change

you might be

...

and the future

pierces all of

the coming years

straight out of

your pupils

and through

your small fingers

maybe that's why

I make you even smaller

when I speak of you

and try to hide you

from the world

with all

the big

and meaningless

words

and then

in the middle

of the night

I am writing

awkward

and so-much-more

honest

letters

to your mother

half-talks (#2)

I do know

what's wrong

with me

I said quietly

and poured us

another drink

you didn't react

just looked at me

with wide eyes
and a purple shadow
cast by your
eyelashes

yes

I replied

to that look

same thing

isn't it

you've nodded

and maybe

our fingers met
for a moment

just above

the ashtray

silence

perfectly filled

with voices

of other people
covered our ears
and left us
unable
to make a sound

now you just

look sleepy

I look as I want

to leave
(neither of us
moves)

half-talks

between the first

and the second beer
he asked
how are you

I've responded
in silence
language I know
the best

he took a deep
breath
and it sounded like
a song

you know
he said
you could just
run away

under different skies
where the air is thinner
and sun-rays heavier
where people have

no eyes
no ears
no voices
and there is no gravity

I tried to smile
but my face
didn't change
he lent me

his fingers
his palms
his closed eyes
to hide my shame

my lips
moved under
his thumb
warm

and covered with salt
how can you
run away
from yourself

he didn't say

anything

we drank

a bit more