Lost, Low

I’m suffocating my love, in delusions and illusions. There’s a northern fog that looms inside the empty vessels, that navigate towards my heart.
I reach out my hand; but the window panes get in the way. I’m dying my love, bit by bit,
My heart breaks, bit by bit.
In fragments I recall vague, sunny days filled with beautiful colors,
Of vibrant blue skies and tropical birds, faraway.
But before my eyes, the bare branches remind me of the leaves which have fallen,
like me,
And while shedding, I’m left dying with pale skin.
Is this what misery is?
To never be able to touch a sweet memory
To never be able to taste a pleasant tune
To want to laugh but to be unable to move, talk, shout
To never be able to capture the essence of you,
In a jar, forever.



Sun friend

Why am I teary unexpectedly? Could it be the love for my grandparents, the loss of a family member, goodbyes of all kind,
The limping dog down the street
Quick infatuations, and false expectations
Sweet motherland, who seeks no expectations
Being sick in this heaven full of empathy
Asking for nothing in return, but only to inhale the scent of mother’s cooking
In the arms of my homeland that rocks me gently while I weep, passing time, watching the streets and making the best out of each hour, as slowly as can be, as if time is way too quick to pass on by, with my friend by my side; the kind sun from dawn till dusk.


His own place in the universe

“He took up nearly half the seat, his long legs spread apart, his arms draped on the back of the bench. She perched down, careful not to let her leg touch his.

He had a casual, unconcerned ease about himself. He moved, sat, rested, and draped as if he were completely unaware of the effect he was having… all his confident limbs projected a sanguine belief in his own place in the universe. This was all given to me, he seemed to say. My body, my face, my height, my strength. I did not ask for it, I did not make it, I did not build it. I did not fight for it. This is a gift, for which I say my daily thanks as I wash and comb my hair, a gift I do not abuse or think of again as I go through my day. I am not proud of it, nor am I humbled by it. It does not make me arrogant or vain, but neither does it make me falsely modest or meek.”

-The bronze horseman