My home is sand and water and your thought,
to dwell in them is how I feel at home,
from shoreline towards dune I walk and roam.
A prisoner maybe I am, and caught
by promises of love and making home
though free I feel, like sea waves topped with foam.
You could not keep me here if this was not
what I had wished for, what it was I sought,
I would not stay and live on silty loam
if this was not the place that I call home.
Polaris, you matter now
after what has been
attracted to your brightness,
guidance on my journey.
Looking North for you
during the sunny day
your presence giving strength
my eyes find light.
Attractive is your brightness
known by all sailors
even when it’s day
you guide me, Polaris.
When you spoke
about your sincerest love
for my furry feline,
how was I to know
that you really meant
that lazy cat of mine?
Evanescent thoughts of you while I write
(memories too short to be called as such)
make me open a window, all windows
so I can smell tar from the ships
then you appear swiftly in my lines
as you and tar, the smell of it are one,
my words can only write this palimpsest
as past has found this way to last in me
and windows batter memories of you.
I’m slowly walking,
each step outdoors
each walk a new adventure.
measured in clouds
and hearing grass grow,
abundancy lies underneath my feet.
Slowly I shall walk back home
to the self I left behind,
to the talk
and to my mind that took all in.
I wonder what you think
when we lie in the grass,
your head resting in my lap
as if you are a book to read
and you sleep or pretending.
What are your thoughts about,
of what do you dream? I don’t know
what to think of the cover
until you open your eyes;
then your mind is an open book.
I read how your story went
from childhood until now,
to where the empty pages start.
After that, each chapter
should be a romance in Spring.
Seen through empty bottles
much brighter looks future:
green light no shadows
but headaches will come.
With this bed I thee ring
in worse and for the better
to belove and hold on to
till one is leaving in awe.
There are lace memories
beds covered with petals
wooden floor and bottles.
Enough said. You’re gone.
The world can best be kept out,
no one entering the house, phones out,
no television, only sounds
of nesting blackbirds
for whom it’s just another Spring.
What would you grab if we
had to leave the house in a hurry?
I know you – probably the toothpaste
or a tin opener, your Swiss knife
instead of photo albums, things I gave you
or framed pictures. Our letters.
What of me would you take with you
if we were to be separated by force?
Maybe you would make time to search but I doubt
that anything of me is to accompany you,
dragged through fire, water, gunfights,
while I probably shall find myself
carrying a trunk full of
almost forgotten moments of us
and all the way to whatever safety
not for a second letting it out of my sight.
I won’t recover easily from you,
back into the earth of loneliness I’ll go
with the smell of decay,
alone, remembering, all bones
and skin and useless will my body be
but it once knew how to please you.
So will my mornings be,
every morning and every afternoon
I shall be dying more away from you.
Away from you, an unbearable phrase
as is the thought. The truth in words
that I can not say without fear.
My afternoons will be filled
with reading your letters out loud
and hear words from when we had no idea,
from before our hands held each other,
before our eyes met,
or was it after. The ink is fading.
So will my evenings be,
in twilight when your shadow seems to haunt,
when silence kills my screaming
before the night takes all of me
in dreams. Of course I shall get over you,
I just won’t recover easily.