The eyelids started to open
one after the other;
witnessing the early birds
and the mascara stains on the pillowcase.
Fighting the nightmare of the chimney guy;
restoring the lovemaking stories.
The light is still blinking –
after all these years, she wonders.
The never-ending blinks tell her everything
but don’t tell her anything.
The alarm goes off –
How desperate; how annoying.
And again, it goes off.
Is it the art of sound that matters to her
or perhaps the shape of anxiety?
She rises – calling his name out loud.
She puts a new postcard
on the mirror and goes crazy
for the reflection of her face.
Then reads the same love letter
written by her hero; by the love of her life –
knowing all the words by heart.
The door is open.
The door is shut.
She feels the flakes on her dried-out skin,
and the freshness of the northern wind.
She catched the very
first train and puts the
“last train” on repeat.
“All the world is birthday cake, so take a piece, but not too much.”
— George Harrioson (Feb. 25, 1943 – Nov. 29, 2001)
I dreamed this poem
on the plane coming back from
la ville lumière.
I begged you and the tree leaves
and her and the glory in his gaze
to be(come) my inspiration.
I came from uncertainty
where there was no remedy.
I flew back for more;
for the ultimate.
I am now back my friend,
inspired, as I am.
By the rain coming down hard
on the same cobblestones of the old town
and the smoke in the air
coming out of the cigar, blending
with the scent of the fresh rosewater.
By the smell of the café crème.
and the baguette crumbs in the same old place;
by the small coins and the big smiles
waiting for garçon de café;
by the shine on his moccasin in burgundy.
By the heart of the poor;
by the frown of the killer
and the dusted books on the shelves.
By the golden antique ring shining
on her chip-nailed fingers.
By the light at the end of the tunnel;
and the unfinished stories
still hanging in the history that we both belong to.
By his emptiness;
by her being who she is inside
and by my own refreshed heart and soul.
I will be back
Tonight the moon wasn’t at its fullest
and I finally felt close to its emptiness.
Tonight I stood tall in front of the lights
witnessing poetry, dancing to the unspoken words;
jumping high, reaching for the starless sky
and miles away, her bones and skin mourn
for him, whose patriot heart stopped
beating against brutality.
– Have a good night.
– I’m getting off too.
Let the smallest things make you the happiest in life.
As small as a