I bring the story of a broken book
Of its yellowish-stained pages
Of the humidity and beauty
Of letters underlined in pencil and their interior filled with mysterious deepness
I bring the story of a broken ashtray
Of the smoke ascending to a cloud of grey breathings
Of an open half-drunk bottle of wine
Of the lonely and melancholic afternoons
Of the days in which we walk alone
We sleep alone
We wake up alone
To see through the window the world has not stopped even an instant
For us
I bring perfume of poppy and stork’s-bills
Confused memories
Illegible letters
I bring an aroma of beer in my throat
Nights with full moon
Air condensed in eternity
I bring with me the games of the broken childhood
The glamorously-dressed simplicity
The black and deep eyelashes as a nocturne by Chopin
I bring a worn leather pouch full of
Saavedras
Bukowskis
Kafkas
Crows and poems next to
Black
Blue
Maybe also grey pens, like the sky today
I bring
Night in my eyes
Rings under the eyes
Porous skin
Pale skin
Asleep skin
Purple nails
Purple death
I bring
Hot sunny days
Lights shining in the retina
I bring
Fatigue
And a dried, dozy, sharp tongue
I bring coldness
I bring fog
I bring verses covered with melancholy
Verses which smell lik ginger
Verses which fade away and run and camouflage
On the white walls
I bring
Gurneys and hospitals
I bring
Needles and botflies
I bring
Your look and your voice
I bring
This red pocket book with red poems and red blood
I bring
Arrows and raptures
Letters and birthdays and well-kept conflicting images, which people don’t know
I bring emptiness.
I bring emptiness.
