Sunday, March 25, 2012


I suppose I should write,

since there is no one,
in my phone at least,
who I know now
that would come
for me

I suppose I should write
about how isolating standards
put down red tape
and create the illusion of grass growing greener... but

for what?

I want it closer,
because I can't feel it anymore.
             the pillow does not smell like you
                        the picture is not on my desk

                               Nothing comes in
               nothing goes out

Sealed bottle of flat soda

I close my eyes
to try and catch the evasive shadow
of the dream I once had
where you came to me
and with loving cheeks
caressed them
against my pale, sleeping chest

only to open them
to the stale sunlight in my gray room
with cold spaces
and the weights of winter's solitude
crashing on my bed

to greet me in this
flat feeling
that follows
every glimmer in a steady glance

every hours long embrace

every kiss
filled with cigarette smoke
in my lungs breathing
for that feeling
but the burning never comes.

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