little tom and lenore go from dark room to another
on their tiptoes, careful not to wake their fathers,
and with immense sustainability they touch her eyes;
the sleeping clementine, she dreams.
her little worried face is covering a world inside her head
in which an ode to a nightmare is made up.
she’s been long gone, watching the birds in sun,
but not the sun in birds. she only ever cleans her guns
when no one’s watching, for fear a grizzly bear outruns her.
her chameleon soul is old and grey, needless to say,
and needless to love, she learnt to pretend, make believe.
but in someone else’s dream she could never cease
to be the eye of a hurricane, the universe itself, and what’s within.
in someone else’s dream her eyes are wild open,
and she’s brave and keen, and there she’s chosen.
little tom and lenore touch her eyes, they touch her parole;
this is where she stops, where she wakens and comes home.
the scent of fresh and crispy apple fills her lungs, and
there is a nightstand on which a layer of dust has circled a spot
vacated by a thing she’s been missing for long.
tom and lenore brought her a fruit; sweet and sour, and not bruised.
because little tom and lenore are twins of light at this time of night.

in your eyes i see the reflection of clouds
of shapes and forms that no one else could understand.
oh brother, stop doing it to me.

you are my one in five billion.
one wrong turn and we wouldn’t be sitting here together.
i just knew; it must be fate.

i don’t wanna mess with you now, but
if there’s an iced tea in that bag, it could be love;
the blind leading the blind.

and in the end the world doesn’t end,
i don’t wanna wrestle. i’ll stick in your hair a spooky feather.
you always have my heart.

this is a prayer for the breaking waves and millions of shattered chips of glass, and manner in which sun beam penetrates through the neck of an old greenish bottle that once contained the fruit of hard working men in the form of cold and sparkling water. this is a prayer for the unremembered and neglected children from twenty-thirty years ago, who used to play hide-and-seek in the woods where spring water meanders without beginning, nor an end. this is a prayer for the sparrows and swallows diving in the sky of bluest blue, over the shoreless fields of corn as summer gradually gathers momentum without the help of the hands of men, regardless of what we would like to believe. this is a prayer for the beauty of the unbridled and inimitable force of wind and freedom which springs from the purest spots under the starry black satin sky; in the peony bushes conquested by armies of ants, from under a bed with old disabled dolls, in a moonlit spider’s web awaiting anxiously for morning dew. this is a prayer for tranquillity in chaos.

my mind is kind,
my dreams are bright,
my wrists are heavy, hanging numb,
suspended, restless yet, mid-air; enchained
with bracelets, of ivory and watercolor,
cradling eyes of lovers.
my mind is dark,
my dreams are harsh.
the cure is here, and yet it’s gone,
it’s past and present, and in the absolute of roam
of eyes of lovers:
oblivious, benevolent, and cold.
my mind is gone,
my dream is one -
a wish for bliss;
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

I was eighteen years old, but no one took pity on me. I didn’t ask for it, after all. I knew that I should have, but I didn’t. I was much too tough. Although in the deafening silence of night - as in the sunlight over a field of giant stems of corn back home, just outside my mother’s house - I was a small child; the smallest and most afraid child I have ever heard of. No one knew that though, no one could know.
And finally, when that moment came, I wasn’t that child anymore, at all. I was eighteen years old, and surrounded by desolation and devastation, and mud. The air - if there was any left - reeked of rain and despair. I felt the little silver cross pressing against my chest as much as ever, as vividly as ever; as though it was the only real thing, as if it suddenly came into the same existence as me, just then and there. I had stolen it some weeks (or was it some years) before, from another young dead soldier. Stolen. The meaning of this word had long ago been lost somewhere in inhospitable fields of blood and wintry wind. It doesn’t matter a sixpence. The stolen cross was nestling up against my bare skin, and, in a strange way, it comforted me.
My rifle felt unimaginably heavy and weightless at the same time. My hands, stiff and cold, were grasping the handle and the barrel, but my psyche wasn’t there. I was conversing with him; I was finding that I had been lost and wandering for far too long, pretending for far too long. I had almost no time left to prepare for what was about to come.
I kept splashing my way through the mud and shouts, and screams, and booms and raors as if I actually had a chance to escape this madness, as if it mattered. But I wasn’t really there. Still, I was there enough to feel the sting in the middle of my back, just above the heart. I fell down on my knees like an exile would greeting his own land once again. I fell down on my knees, and I heard my mother’s voice. “Don’t be brave,” she said. “Be good and come back to me.”
I let go, and everything fell silent. Only the beautiful music, the heavenly beautiful music echoed in the space between me and all the young and old men around me, and all the bodies and the souls. It was soothing, and it filled me with tranquility. Hot, liquid-like substance flooded my entire body from the inside, and I tried to open my eyes as wide as I could, and looked up at the sky. Oh, the boundless ocean of stars that grant wishes. If only one of them would fall right now, I thought.
A star didn’t fall. I did. I am just a tired soul.

i cease to know where you hide yourself, for i had closed my eyes for that one little fraction of a fatal moment. and from all that you are whispering i can only understand one thing - i know your feet are cold. and yet, i dare swear that they are not nearly as cold as my heart; whilst my mind is on fire. or vice versa, because who could tell any more.
i cannot not see you when i look around this world, in this life. and even though your frigidity is not for me, i cannot shelter myself from it, and sharp icy fragments of what used to be you, your shadow, are dissecting me.
my weariness weighs ten thousand tons, and i can no longer lift the corners of my lips. the gravity is too strong. i wish i could see you just once more. shit. i wish i never had to not see you. so, honey, won’t you let me in?

doing anything else at all would be a waste of time and a lie. because every time i see him, my heart jumps up a little bit as if trying to get out through my throat, and the air in my lungs becomes as heavy as lead. and every time he walks by, my skin is set on fire. and when his coffee brown eyes pierce me, i drown, i am happy.
one would assume it’s quite physical; but physical is the last thing that this is. leastwise terrifying and confusing. although mostly merely confusing, but that is always the case anyway. even though he is as simple as a glass of iced water. and yet, sometimes he is the milky way to me.
i like to secretly watch him while he’s counting to infinity and building spaceships. i do indeed believe i could be lifted up into constellations; by this feeling. and sometimes, i swear, it seems as though that is all that i need in life, just to know that he exists. he’ll go his way and i’ll go mine, but as long as i can catch a glimpse of his shadow, i feel a windstorm inside of me. i feel invisible fingertips touching my face, as long as i’m allowed to remember him.
appreciation is what it is.

we are just like them. it almost frightens me to think that i probably already know what is it going to look like in the end, like i can see the future. yet, it is hard to understand you. you are difficult, very difficult in all your aspects. you are so distant and unknown to me, you are like the farthest star. still, a star. you are hurt. i am hurt a little bit more. there is a cold space filled with silence between us. although i still am the only one who can look into your mind, just like a bowl of soup.
we are just like them. you do not need me and i do not need you. but somehow we keep clinging to each other in our dreams and in solitude. and somehow your words always remain ringing in my ears like music would. if i listen closely enough, i can hear you say that you will forsake me. but you do not know that, you do not hear it. you listen to yourself more carefully than you listen to anyone else, but you cannot tell apart the sounds. you will forsake me and i will forsake you.
we are just like them. it does not matter what or when we do, our fate is already written in the mesmerizing ripples of the oceans. there is too much electric and eclectic magic in the air. it is hard to breathe. or think, for that matter. although thinking was never an option we would choose. we are merely too used to nonsense, there would be no use in trying to change that.
we are just like them. we do not understand anything, not a single tiny little thing. we allow ourselves to drown in mornings of each other’s eyes, until an apple tree drops the last fruit, which ironically does not depend on the season.
we are just like them, but afterwards, please do remember, it was good knowing you.

this painting, this window-like mirror, framed in an old silver frame. it breathes back at me, and i pray; ’forgive me,’ i pray, ‘child.’ but she hardly shows any affection or sympathy, she hardly looks at me. i bring her rosy waterlilies, and i pray more; more hastily. the answer is chilly silence penetrating my ears and my eyes. ‘why, why do you do this to me?’ i cry out. she sits down on the floor, and looks at me; her gaze pierces through me and it’s cold. i stretch my arms and reach for her, i want to shake her, i want to make her feel pain, i want her to feel bitter, and i want her to react; anything, but this silence. but she seems to be indulging in this torture. she wishes not to answer, because she knows - i know - i deserve this. i just do not understand, why did they leave me to make all these mistakes, and to become this shallow grey figure standing before a window-like mirror. i wish they had held my hand and guided me through sharp seashore rocks. it makes me mad, to think that they would let me fail so many times; that they would let me fall. it makes me furious and sad, and i do not wish to talk. i am full of grudge, so there, i sit down in silence, and stay forever locked inside myself.

music reminds me of you. you remind me of music. you will never ever be forgotten; not the way you make me feel. and the dreams you inject under my skin while i am sleeping; i will not forget them. i will not forget the words i wanted to speak out loud, and the feeling of tears freezing in my throat. you are unforgettable, my dear. every little tiny part of you. even the emptiness you leave is stronger than a thousand of cold wild winds; the emptiness could make my house collapse. and your thoughts, your thoughts are my thoughts; and your smiles are my smiles, and you are mine, forever. although forever is not enough to love you.
so please, forgive and forget me. just as one would forget last year’s snow. because i am on fire, my dear. my hands are on fire. and my heart is in your pocket; take care of it. put it in a vase with lilacs on your writing desk or next to your morning cup of tea.