982

This town rattles, its ground shakes 

an earthquake of grey faces quivering 

wide eyes stare at the walls peeling off, crumbling at their feet.

I am on my knees, pressing into the cutting pavement

bleeding tears and souls 

my tears are dissolved rock salt that bathe the deep cuts 

mixing with my sweet blood

a painful amalgamation of chemicals and bodies.

I have a handful of white pills, squandering on my palm 

each is a small, round promise of happiness.

They numb my head heart feet until all there is left is

the white background of my life 

empty.

I tied myself with a thick, black rope 

onto time. I am not able to stand, my knees hurt

so I begged life to pull me along with it

a clinging body dragged by this hurried chaos of happenings.

Every time I let another pill kiss my mouth, I feel its powdery fingers

crushing what is left of you inside me.

They are not healing me. Morning always brings you back.

Suffering is my only sign that you were there, that I did not paint

our story. 

982

a number which pulled me out of the ground that swallowed me up.

a number diminishing with each breath, with each thought

as our bodies grow and wither, my heart getting old inside yours.

I have just enough time to taste this bitter freedom of youth

of sleeplessness and young mouths of faces I do not recognise.

Just enough time to breathe in the sour air of a new city,

to laugh at my childish attempt of falling in love with strangers.

And then with my hands dry and my eyes full of this new life

my shirt smelling of cheap perfumes, my head weighted with books

and words and meaningless affairs, 

I will return to you, hurl myself heavy with longing, into your arms:

the child who knew nothing of love and yet loved you

is finally back home.