luni, 18 ianuarie 2010


I hear you vaguely as I glide

Down the steep memory lane

Which turns your sayings into postcards

I am succombing once again

To all the people that I was

To every I and eye that mark the length

Between me and here

You say your shoulder touches both my cheeks

But will I ever see you truly

Amid this plea yesterday stubbornly bleeds

On my renewal?

I stroll inside this black and white by Goya

Trying to strip my face from rats and burns

Hoping your touch will meet a skin more even

When I emerge from the dark ages

Within our two inches apart.

There is a red mark on my forehead

Going down

Going straight

Slitting the run that gives my spread

A sense of marriage.

I love you

The words are as real as the sound they make

However you're too close to seem anything but

The evidence of your presence.

I try to touch the perfect circles on your face

From elsewhere divided.

But will I ever see you wholly

With a sight torn to tenses?


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