hands filled with summer  and thoughts with horizon today, flowing by themselves. a sudden burst of joy, amusement in the face of ordinary life, trivial yet so creative beyond our control. the mind contemplating the image of  the situation decided it was funny, it was something else: sitting on a chair in the cold on a busy boulevard waiting for meatballs with mashed potatoes to be ready while reading about how different the thinking of people is in the east compared to the west (the geography of thought) while listening to massive attack and my legs dancing on the pavement while thinking about summer in between the lines while looking after women in the street. me - a surreal collage of actions and thoughts haunted by love as quantum superposition. I wonder where does a thought begin, where does it trully end

this pain like an unwritten poem
only the winter knows how much I loved you
how little I am able to say
the air is tall, the night so deep
I walk in the selfishness of the cold
I walk in this landscape where love is an exile,
a forest without shadows, a party without guests
a happiness without an alibi
something that gets destroyed at the first burst of light
but springs again from the unknown depth of skin

I am in the waiting room of a dying love, a nascent love
while Monalisa is sleeping without dreams
in the depth of my days the certainty of tears
only the winter knows how much I loved you

indulging quietly in their delight
the echoes of light are rumbling the universe apart
I leave behind the skin of some days
no light in some pockets full of depth
but cosmos is born in your hands
what a wonder that light rhymes with delight
so natural so wild

what an adventure carries me inside a surprise
what a surprise to feel ourselves emptied of death
the radiance of an imaginary time quietly rumbling
or is it or was it or is it
the echo of your savage lips

your trainers full of dirt
next to a Christmas decoration,
the woodpacker self-absorbed on a branch,
a pigeon floating on a current of mystery
I emptied of an I in the tenderness
of this fleeting moment

the first snow so warm wonder
is whirling in our living hands
seconds can be windows
they can feel a kind of truth
an impossible simultaneity
of tears and laughter,
a peacefulness as deep as the roots.

let me circle around your mystery
give me one more second
to smile back at you

the unbearable or the body as fiction
cold minds in cold hands and so we have
the remake of the fake
the power of looking and not seeing each other
tears are silent so silent are some words
poisonous smiles and innocence inbetween
"the unbearable lightness of being" a remix
time holds us in its merciful circles
the rest is a mystery, why I love you

"Poetry is not a luxury... Through poetry we give name to those ideas which are until the poem nameless and formless."

by Audre Lorde

somewhere in time everything already written
this marvel how everything meets anything
that belongs to a togetherness of darkness
I've been touched by this easiness of travelling
the path between garden and perfume
I've played the fool who believed images
so ready to commute in an endless still
pursuit of the chimera of truth

you know, there is this hidden dimension where
time and space haven't invented their names yet
cause they annihilate each other endlessly
there is this pain like a worm in an eagle's sight
so sensitive the spring of words
that time touches us with this wonder
a merciful road between chance and necessity

all the hope of a blind dawn in my writing hands
like a morning awaiting its silence
there is nowhere to hide from pain
in the end

I feel like a poet again as
I'm standing in front of this window
it is full of ivy and ripples of quietness
life has certain rhymes and some riddles
I'm thinking about lovers exchanging
spontaneous glances, words, illusions
I'm thinking about social workers
returning home with a tired smile
I'm thinking about young and old
carrying different worlds under their skin

I feel like a poet again as I wait for the hours
to ripen for more truth to tell
a round whiteness  an exultant blackness
embrace the window

so hard to comprehend if you
can truly be loved as you are
or we simply use each other
like Seurat used light
the jukebox of desire plugged-in
it keeps turning reality against itself

sometimes  I am dreaming, feeling
crying, laughing too much
I know.
I keep looking at the world
with the terror of being alive
with a look that exhausts love
itself

what if contradiction is the mother
of progression?

I've always had an image of what my idyllic life would be.
In my mind I'm failing myself if I'm not upholding that dream.

It became the most important thing for me, because then I'd be happy and content.

I didn't seek out hobbies for fulfilment and joy. Often leaving something I loved if I thought others were doing better than me.

I would stop seeing friends because this became my priority
All to have companionship, a family.
To sit around the table and share our day.

Being talked down to for years validating the fears you often already faced.
Being asked, "are you sure they're even your friend" or "why do you even like them".
When your anxiety gains a physical voice, and it's from a person you love you stop questioning the anxiety.

Years of often walking on eggshells, addressing things in a certain way to avoid any kind of conflict.
Then the table gets flipped and everything is pulled out from under you.
You have no one to turn to. Your people have been pushed away, the only ones that remain are also "their" people.

Your table looks incredibly small when there's no one to share it with.

Still afraid, unsure and raw. Your forced to find yourself. To better yourself for no one else but yourself.
It's empowering to be truly alone, and feel content with that.
To actually listen to your heart and find what makes it sing.
To not fill your life with clutter but those that truly matter.
I don't feel stronger, just more content and steady on my feet.

don't ask how I am
I might confess with riven words
I am trying out dances for
one thousand and one nights
like a Scheherazade of unforseen
whispers