Lost
not in this world,
but from it.
I walk,
one foot after the other,
toward a place
I cannot name
or maybe
there is no place
at all.

Alone,
with echoes of memories
that feel like wind
soft,
and then gone.

They call to me
the good old days
but when I turn
to look,
I see only
shadows
curling in a vacuum,
and a silence
too thick to breathe.

The past is hollow.
The future,
faceless.
And the present
just a corridor
with locked doors
and no windows.

My heart still beats,
perhaps,
but it no longer sings.
It whispers
in tired thumps,
like a bird
that forgot
why it ever flew.

I am here
yet fading,
like light
dissolving
in the arms
of night
that never comes.

Her words
were deep
like still water
that remembers storms.

My replies
were deeper,
echoes carved
from silence and soul.

She whispered,
“I wish I could buy you.”
And I,
without hesitation,
said,
“You can.”

She paused,
eyes holding the question,
“And what would your price be?”

I looked away,
toward the night sky
that never belonged to anyone,
and answered,
“My freedom!”

I was sitting on a bench,
in a quiet place , a cemetery,
but also a park
where people come to walk,
to jog, to breathe.

Then I saw it,
a pigeon flying down from a tree.
It walked softly on the ground,
its feathers glowing in the morning light.
Black wings,
white chest,
purple and black neck,
white tail,
and feet covered with white feathers.

So beautiful.
I didn’t say it out loud,
but in my heart I admired it.

And then
it looked at me.
Really looked.

And to my surprise,
it flew to me.
Landed on the bench,
right next to me.
Its claws held the metal tightly.
It stared
those red eyes moving,
like it was trying to understand me
from every angle.

It came closer.
And for a second,
I felt something between us.
Our eyes met
and stayed.

Then, quietly,
it flew away.

I don’t know what it was.

Was it God,
answering my silent thoughts?
Or the universe,
reminding me that we are all connected?

It felt like love
but not the kind we see in movies.

No hands.
No words.
Just a moment between a human and a bird.
Real.
Quiet.
Sacred.

Maybe love is like that sometimes
not between lovers,
but between souls.
No need for shape or name.
Just presence.

I still remember
your footsteps beside me,
whispering on the asphalt,
in the rain,
in the hollow of dark nights,
beneath the weary glow
of city lamp poles,
upon the trembling wet pavement.

Now you have left
the rain,
the light,
and me.

Yet still I walk
through the same aching air,
the same silver rain,
the same empty streets.

Each drop that falls
is a soft echo
of your vanished footfall,
each puddle
a mirror to a memory
I cannot outrun.

O rain,
why can you wash the world clean,
but never wash
her footsteps
away from my life?

After seeing the ruthless killings
of black, tiny, weak kids on TV,
from starvation in Africa
on Christmas Eve,
I tiptoed back to my
white son's room,
made off with the gifts I had left,
burned them,
and killed the Santa Claus.

I know you are impartial,
You do not take sides
Not with the oppressed,
Not with the oppressors.

You are a good human,
You do not interfere in the acts of others,
Even if they are murders
In the brightness of the day.

You are a good human being,
You do not speak of wars,
Of blood, of wounds,
Of cries, of deaths.

You wish only to spread love,
To cover your eyes,
To shield your ears,
To silence your tongue
Against the roar of evil.

But tonight, before you sleep,
Close your doors,
Shut your windows tight,
And whisper only to yourself.

Ask your heart, the one you hide,
Ask as the human you had promised to be
Everything happening around you,
Before your open eyes

The screams that break into your house,
The cries that stain your walls,
The blood that runs through your streets

Is it good, or is it bad?

If it is good,
Then sleep peacefully,
And know you are right.

If it is bad,
Then know —
You have been wrong.

What does a kiss on a soft cheek cost?
A heart?
Laid in her palms
Is that the price?

Or a soul
Should it be
At her feet
Sacrificed?

Or maybe the time that is left
The last breath
The final sigh
In return
For a moment,
For lips to touch?

Tell me
What more should someone offer?
What more will she ask?

For the right
To rest
Two weary pilgrims
My longing lips
on the sacred land
of her cheek?