I miss our kisses in the park, in the dark,
Where we used to take cover and hover.
We stole moments, your hands over my body, caressing the soft parts.
Whispering love.
You touched my inner rhapsody,
And it turned into a melody so profound,
I became a Clarinet.
We talked about things only movie characters would know.
I brought my own script to your stage, and we had our heuristic drama.
There we were, embraced in the discords of the world, laughing at the jokes no one told,
Like the despicable way things generally are...
Like the woman who swallowed all her golds,
Or the man who killed for love. Love enabled people to **** these days and it made us think, how?
We always had known otherwise:
Love made us more human.
Now we ended that sentence with a question!
We kept kissing in the dark anyway,
Tasting your tongue,
Smelling the cheap smoke you could afford, dreaming about things we could not...
Forgetting about the people who died, while keeping things in order.
I wrote vague poems for you, that you read and ceased to remember.
Like old towns that had homes with letter boxes.
I opened one of those, on that yellow house with ancient moss gathered on its establishment...
It was empty,
So you promised to write a letter to me, promised to address it to that letter box, so I could find it one day.
I went there yesterday,
But the house wasn't there somehow.
It lost all the promises.
Yours too.
It lost me.
About you, I couldn't tell anymore.
This is about romance, its aching joy, sweet pains in its absence. The poem's about the sustenance that love finds from within the soul: old ties, memories, harmony among the cacophony the world throws at the lovers...