Monday, May 18, 2009


A word of advice: do not live in the past. "What if"s only incur agony.

A years-old poem:

It's funny only afterwards you turned out the lamp

I nuzzled my cheek against your burning neck

And traced lost words on your palm with my frozen fingers

And let them dance along your spine

"I want to sleep next to you," I breathed into your safe embrace

You covered me with the blanket, because I get so cold

(Even though you love to see me naked)

And clutched my hand and sang softly in my ear

While stroking the curly strands at the base of my neck

Moonlight and shadows

You opened the window and lit up

The ones you'd saved for tonight

In the density of the clutter of your minimalist bedroom

The glowing end of your cigarette was the only light