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november

november gets at me,
eyes tired of the lamplight;
you’re not much better too.

wait with me until spring
and bed with me, closed curtains.
expect no more than warmth.

warm nothing more but me
and don’t give in to leaving.
november gets at us.

accept. let go. be tired.
condensated under hail
are our frosted windows.

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Prayer

I awake and the world starts all over
and everyday I am further from you
and I shall forget so much about us.

where does this leave the almost truth?
I shall remember so much about us.
everyday I shall be nearer to you.
I won’t awake and all will be over.

to be awake and asleep at the same time
to feel the presence of a loss
to have nothing but everything
to know all without knowing one fact.

I awake and the world starts all over
and further away I feel from myself
and closer I feel to my own.

so much lies forgotten in truth
whatever the mind seems fit to tell.

you are alright now
and we had a good time together.

amen

real life

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.

Let them do the thinking

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.

Promise me

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.

Whole day

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.
because, perhaps
one day will be different.
one day will be whole,
the morning stretched.
mornings don’t bother me at all.

The balance

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.

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