she remembers those days in real life
when their old emails joined her
to meet him for dinner
and later their sent messages made out,
liking each other every afternoon, while
she was there in his bed, and they did the same.
her Facebook comments were teaching his
how to make a heart
( < and 3 , no space in between )
and she will never forget how the little creatures,
thousands of them, joined the loving couple
for coffee near the sea. it was quite a parade.
as she and he held hands,
the messages and emails were giggling,
their comments blushed and started to yell.
‘can’t really take them anywhere,’ he sulked.
‘sssh, we are the only ones
who know they are there,’ she said
she is so glad real life never got in the way
of true friends and distant lovers.
of memories and love.
it is best to leave thoughts alone at times –
sent them on a distant walk
to the loneliness of a cold winter forest
or a windy beach in october
have them breathe some fresh air
and make them rearrange their lines,
give them time to heal from pain, from loss,
and let them find wisdom within themselves
while you yourself hang out on the sofa,
eating chocolates, watching telly
in a comfy warm room
not eager for their quick return.
That all the dead are soil now,
where flowers grow and trees and corn,
and every new-born life will go one day,
all this your face has told me
in silent moments of our meetings,
in my dreams, in streets, on railway stations,
and sometimes in a bed.
That all the soil is life now,
and that we met and we shall meet,
as we have done; I know.
I bet it’s true.
I’ll be the cauliflower next time,
if you will be the carrot.
mornings don’t bother me at all:
the white canvas of the foggy window
nurses the already wounded light.
i can deal with mornings and their starting pains.
i embrace them.
the whole day should be a morning.
in afternoons the black birds of reality fly by
and scream, their knife stabbing starts,
tearing the day further apart.
this too will be a day like any other, and grey is
loneliness and memory and grieve.
even fresh coffee has no taste this time of day.
the demons of the dark curse me
with self-pity tears.
once in bed,
I am impatient to sleep for a chance
to start this thing all over
again, and again, and again.
because the alternative is worse.
one day will be different.
one day will be whole,
the morning stretched.
mornings don’t bother me at all.
she weighs the thought by the weight of her child
as she carries him up the stairs –
the boy seems lighter –
but she won’t speak of this with the father.
slowly she reaches the landing,
where she forces her thought over the balcony
as it would crash the bed of the little one,
as it would shake the house on its base,
and the walls be tumbling down.
Inside the candle’s flame
the truth perhaps.
We stare away from darkness.
Do you think in my waves,
do I catch yours?
The flame stays put.
The truth stays there.
Your hands seem calmer
now the night sets in.
Out there the unknown creatures howl.
We are not there.
They are not us.
There is no saver place
than in a candle’s flame.