Love.
Love is not a box of chocolate
that you can eat, digest and pour into the toilet.
it is not a flower that dries or rotten in moldy water in the vase.
it is not a piece of a cardboard with a painted heart,
Which lies in the bottom drawer,
As long as you do not make up your mind to throw it away.
Love is not a one day in which you're in panic sweep from the store shelves all
Which, according to the companies and corporations are best fit the description of deep feelings.
it is not the teddy bears, candles and **** lingerie.
Love is not red or pink.
It does not smell of marshmallows and roses.

My love is rather black as coffee and ashes.
It is probably transparent
As the monitor screen through which I read you and your thoughts.
It smells of books and smoke.
My love makes each day meaningful
but turns life into nothing.
Love is not the ability to see all the flaws and be willing to accept them,
But the capacity through a long time still do not pay attention on them.
My love is a jump into the abyss, holding hands,
not unclasping them, even when a clash with water breaks your legs.
Love is not a merging into one,
but the opportunity to be yourself.
Love is to let your beloved breathe calmly,
Even when you want to bind him and keep  him in your basement,
If only he was always there.
Love is the ability to cope with yourself when you're drunk and your hands are reaching out for the phone.

No, love is not a one day
or a lifetime.
This is at least the part of life,
But the most striking and sad.

Therefore, today is an ordinary day,
Such as tomorrow, the same as yesterday.
And I love you today, no more and no less,
the same as tomorrow, as well as yesterday.

Monosyllabically play smells.
With coffee and cigarettes
hands and sounds.
Mine with oranges. yours with *****.
You left them all entangled in my hair.
I breathe in and you again.
Again you look at me with a smile and sorrow.
We depend on the people and circumstances.
enjoy with alcohol abuse and insomnia.
When the last strangers' step out of the room  we breathe out in silence.
The words too much for too short time,
that's why we wait untill each one comes back to write.
Until each one of us is covered with the night.

I am running marathon alone.
I have no one to compete.
No one to bet on me.
I am at the finish line.
I see a red ribbon in the end floating on the wind.
No one greets me with a camera at the ready.
No one has his hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne, ready to explode.
No one watches me from a helicopter.
Only the rare passers threw me bottles of water
I don't have time to catch them.
I got exhausted. I've come a long way.
I am running alone.
No audience, no sympathy.
Soon my chest  will meet the red ribbon
and I hear the crack of it.
With the sound of invisible applause I go to the store for wine
and drink from the cup of victory in the empty kitchen
a winner’s sip

The world I’m living in is dilapidating.
I’m standing surrounded with buildings, things and people.
I’m just watching as piece by piece they are crumbling.

Falling,
every heavy piece of world turns into a dust and feather,
sometimes into snowflakes and drops of fog.
They are floating slowly in the air, being taken up with the wind
that takes them away with small impulses far from me,
mixing them,
destroying them.

I’m watching the world turning into decorations,
flat picture of it.
I try to descry whether there is another world
outside these decorations or at last another decorations.
Probably there is just a blank nothing.

I do not know if I have to take a hammer and ruin all that left or try
to collect those dust, feather and water and mix them
with something more stable, and put it into holes
to fix my world of decorations.

Still I’m standing and watching, confused, breathless.

Suddenly, while I’m standing among the soundless apocalypse,
the soil under my feet turns soft. It dries and turns
into a sand that seeps through the narrow funnel,
pulling me inside.

There are less of sand drains around me as I
keep falling into an endless abyss. I am
somewhere beyond two realities. I am
falling and hope this hole could appear to be a rabbit-hole which finally leads me to the Wonderland.

Beyond the feeling of distraction
I have to keep on doing what I have.
Keep on working, being serious,
keep my head cool and
make my heart beat slowly
that no one could hear it.

I am nervous about so many things but you
made me a neurotic.
You are the reason of refusing eating,
abusing coffee.

You make me feel alive,
Alive enough to die
in controversies, in disappointments.

You are the pain in my back that embraces me so warm
And cozy.

You are the every moment of reality,
The first breath of autumn.
The first sip of coffee after a sleepless night.
The whiff of the first cigarette
that makes me always feel dizzy.

You make me feel quite awful.
Enough to feel the best part of every sight I see,
Of every action I take and every mistake I commit.
I imagine your ***** past and you future, even dirtier.
And if I could be more closer to your real life,
I would not think of it.

Everyone knows how to make one love,
How to draw a beautiful picture.
What colors and objects to put over the life to cover it.
But no one knows how to protect it
prevent all the rain and alcohol drops
which soon will wash all the colors off.

I don’t know anything about life.
I don’t know anything of being in someone else’s life.

I have the same name,
The same last name,
Same eyes, same blood type.
but I have never had the same self-confidence.
I was never sure of anything except my uncertainty.
All your life you have been doing what you wanted.
Now all my life, I continue doing what you want.
Your gaze, when you ask "so what do you want to be?"
And I answer “I don’t know”
Makes me think that all I want is to be frivolous and unserious.
In fact, I always knew.
Was just afraid of your disapproval and condemnation.

My poor mother.
All you do is brilliant.
except the family.
Your healing hands are able to cure everything but boredom,
Everything but apathy.
My gorgeous mom,
you would always believe in me more than I did.
In your eyes the picture of me was always more colorful and perfect.
I'm anxious for disappointing you.
That’s why I don’t tell anything about myself.
That’s why I keep my interests in a separate apartment.
You are so sick and tired of carrying your life, of carrying my life and dozens of other people.

When I was little I looked at you and never understood.
I didn’t want to be like you, but I never knew.
Now I am about to grown up.
Now I see much clearly.
I admire you.
But still I don’t want to be like you.
Because I have only your eyes, your name, your blood type
But any hint of your strength and certainty.
All I want is to be frivolous and unserious
And try to make you think that I have become all you wanted me to become.