i’d like to think that early mornings are still mine
when the kitchen’s empty and the tea stopped burning the
tip of my tongue like the cigarette’s taste i’m
too embarrassed to take your mother’s name in vain with
the uneasy silence when all of your friends have left the house
right before the weight of sunrise cracks through the walls,
the nighttime closes in on you for every day and
reaching out for nothing more than stifled kisses at your door
i wonder left behind two dark-eyed courtains of morning crumbs if
someone ever was to steal that lazy smile of yours
lingering mem’ries of dreamy places should rather not be left
but lived, underneath two dozen piles of dusty pillows
i close my eyes,
‘cause anyhow or anytime
are still mine.
I cannot tell you how many times I have left my window open, as if giving in to a childish belief that you would fly right in and through it to kiss me good night.
I wish I didn’t have to tell you what she has become. But I do. Limbs, a corpse you keep dragging around, with that rope tight around her chest, she cannot move to stop from drowning in that drought. The more she ask herself why, the less she knows.
Truth is, I hate everything she’s become since that day, and I mean on the inside, and I don’t know if I can forgive her or you or anybody and I don’t know how to fix anything either, and I don’t want you to be the one to, because sometimes you seem to ruin everything related to her.
It’s not always like this, only when you look. But right now she’s slowly getting to a point where she can’t blame the weather for her mood anymore, and she’s caving in every single time she sees people she loves trying to cheer her up and she wants to be happy for them. tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better.
in the end it all happened the way you wanted it to
and what am i but an audience to a play i auditioned for, willingly
maybe i am part of a literary generation that dreamt too much of
other worlds and spaces between your fingers, not to ask what if