Lucrul cu adevărat revoltător e că, într-o altă viaţă, am fost împreună la peste 4000 de kilometri. Acum am putea să traversăm parcul şi să ne regăsim, mâini, braţe, obraji, căldură, dragoste ce n-a durat trei ani, dar suntem separaţi.

I miss you so much.

And I’m so tired.

[...]

Si-am mai ales si o scrisoare datata demult de logodnicul meu, ce n-a vazut inca lumina printului sau a tiparului. E frumoasa si clara, si-n ea vorbele nu se-nnegresc ca-n paginile mele incalcite. Mai mult decat atat, e genul care pune in miscare inimi de cititori.

multumesc & sper sa ne vedem pe hartie”.

“People say that true love never really goes away. I believe that the reason I can’t live without you is just under my nose, I just haven’t come to terms with it yet. Maybe we’re done for good. Something tells me we’re not. Our fire never went out, trust me. And the sad thing is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move on.”

via

burning stitch

left by bad mod surgery

Like a dagger striking

in white shells,

Like a fountain filled

with bad luck stained

coins

Like a dead man’s rib cage

reaching from the water

In my dining room

Uninvited.

A dream inside a dream: you slept for four hours, went to bed at three am, woken up dazed and confused somewhere between waking and sleeping; arms detached from body, seeking heat in a movement synchronized to the beats that your heart skipped; you do this every time; touch yourself at night, with the vision of time passed; but now, he’s almost risen from your silent body and, fingers crossed, legs open, sprung desire in what’s left of post war years gone together.You don’t understand a bit as delusion crawls back to relieve morning.

Or was it you, thinking the same, above an Ocean.

Dar pe atunci era totul bine şi steril. Erau frustrările acoperite bine de zăpadă. Acum rămâne să dansez cu mine în mijlocul celuilalt acasă, unde foamea dispare şi nu e înlocuită decât de cea mai sigură singurătate din lume. Şi cea mai bună.

In the open of my arms

In the shredding of my army

Since we broke up I’m using lipstick again

I draw carnations

for a hero.

is the saddest word

in every language

They say

In every dialect.

You haven’t mourned yet,

my beloved

You haven’t sent away the space

between lust and

separation

and denial

Your lungs

furtive and blunt

You make your way through the distance

But you don’t look back

You don’t flash your grace

To him

but to everyone else

in evil sympathy

to break the free will

to resent the spirit

to calm the longing

like a garden flower in July

picked by a wrong lover.

photo via Aaron Feaver

With knees and trees

And marks and vines

Ghost town of the worst

You push your welcome

when you thrust

It’s almost indecent

How your gaze

Across thirty five scripts

stays the same

cautious and obnoxious

pretending

excruciating

spreading a life’s righteous morals

After rough intercourse in a fitting

Room.

A killer box

She’s dressed

In leather, wine and cigarette ash

thin and terrific

she plays divine

Sucking her fingertips

like dragging life from your body.

A colossus

dark eyed

fearless

from the outside

a child.