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