07:00
there was knocking on my door
and a quiet voice
asking for me to let in

when I finally got
to open the door
there was no trace of anyone
not my sister
who never knocked so softly
always two quick knocks
not my father
who bangs on the door
as if I've stolen something from him and now he wants it back
no, no one was at the door
nor the corridor
nor the winding stairs that resembled the shriveled oak tree
we admired so. (she turned a hundred last year)

no, my only visitor
was the sunlight
creeping her way in softly, silently
through the square glass windows

I admit I am not a morning person
(wrong. I am not a waking up at 07:00 person)
if my ghosts are trying to wake me up,
its 07:00,                                   too early.

never mind the pressure of the world
collapsing onto my shoulders
or the whips of cruel words
strung together by other’s mouths
it’s easy for me
but when the one soul
i care so much about
has seemed to run
it isn't easy for me

you seem to have forgotten how
i never left your side
the favor couldn’t be returned
you couldn’t keep your promises
and so i’m going to get lost in this
big city, mingle with the crowds
i’ll be a face among many
you won’t be able to find me
i’ll be the one that got away and
i hope it isn’t easy for you.

i.c.d

we own teacups
of porcelain   that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied

we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam          rise                    and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time     slowly they get out of mind

one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes   in memory     nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)

these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee          and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently       never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware,     cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled,        coffee          and         tea.

I always thought of her          as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and     sipped       like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)

there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian

I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks    if she
wants coffee.