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

*** (if you follow me tonight)

if you follow me tonight

and we enter together this

small

and dark

room

I might tell you

how much

I hate this city
with buildings
ill from dwarfism
so far
far away
from the sky

I might tell you
how all of the streets
are too narrow
and leave no space
to be

I might tell you
about the nights
flowing in the limbo
out of time
but so much
in space
here
here
never somewhere
else

you hold my chin
upwards
when I try
to push you
out

- into the streets
and the draft
feels like
the breathe
of a stranger

(horrible

awful

town)

nights that are not

it's a shame

you won't stay for the night

just to sleep next to me

and maybe trap my hair

under your shoulder

you could touch my spine

with your knuckles

or blow some warm air

into my ear

it might be

I would throw my leg

over you

or even

press my fingers
to your cheeks
press my lips

to your forehead

- when you are

asleep

it's a shame you are not
asleep
next to me

I like to think about numbers because then I don't have to think about us

I will think of the number

between 1 and 10

and this number will be you

we both know

it can't be even

- just because you are

so odd

and nothing about you

can be divided by

anything else 

but one

or by me

we both pretend

that we are asleep

at night

and it could go unnoticed

if it wasn't for all the bruises

under our eyes

that grow bigger

and bolder

every morning

I will think of the number

that later on

you will press into my ear

with your breath

(another sunrise)

autumn

we have been walking

between the raindrops

for the whole night

and I could see

your lips turn blue

but haven't done anything

even though

my fingers could

nearly touch yours

all that water

and all that night

made you small and weak

you cracked

and fell into pieces

- now I could see

your eyes following me

from every puddle

and from every

dark and blind window

I have extended
my arm
and allowed water
to gather
inside my palm
it almost felt
like holding your hand
so cold
and so blue