THE LETTERS ARE MY BREATH I CANNOT CATCH, I WAS KILLED IN MY HOMETOWN AND IT MIGHT BE ANOTHER TOWN OF CATS I RAN AWAY FROM. I HATE TRAINS. I HATE WHAT I CANNOT TOUCH. FLICKERING. FLICKERING AND SCATTERED. WE ARE ALL SACRED IN THE NAME OF EARTH. BUT EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT. EVERYTHING IS SCATTERING AND FLICKERED. UNLESS YOU.
YOU SHOOK ME LIKE NO ONE ELSE.
YOU SHOOK ME LIKE NO ONE ELSE IT'S ALMOST LIKE A LULLABY. ARE YOU MY FATHER? ARE YOU MY FATHER BECAUSE YOU WERE BORN LONG BEFORE I EXIST? ARE YOU MY FATHER BECAUSE EVEN YOU ARE YOUR OWN FATHER? TAKE CARE OF ME. PLEASE. TAKE CARE OF ME AND TALK TO ME AS IF YOUR TONGUE IS A BOWL OF MILK.

I remember somewhere
in the depth of your lake-like eyes:
fresh ropes, high places, warm walls.

Everything I've tried to recall
from the comfy, tender-looking voice
still floating like clouds below the scorching sun.

I imagine so: you
are more than a metaphor of poetry,
more than a life in your body, you

are a son lost in your own prophecy.
I now know how a mother must feel,
how a mother must feel about the fruit of the womb.

These blue-green petals of your existence
softly wrapping my fingers and sloppy neck;
it is almost as if my skin is precious.

I deserve some medical/neurological explanations.
Please just let me cry to sleep.
Or at least just let me cry.
Or at least just let me sleep.
Pick one, you.
I did.
I picked one. Doom.
My mistake lies in the pocket.
My mistake is written all over my face.
Bloom.
It doesn't have another meaning. I just happen & I got to end.

I cannot eat
you from here, please,
come closer.

You are a flower
blooming in the
wrong season, no,
this isn't always about
you. So when
I sing to you I
sing to wind and
it was you who raised
my voice, so
high only
bats can hear.

Ruby or blood,
I am gonna have them both.
You don't worry
anyway because it
is my growth.

It's not ******* anymore.
And nothing to
do with pregnancy. The
stomachache is
genuine -- so pure and poor,
melodious chemical reactions of leftovers.

Heaven is the way
I wrote those pretty letters
I've now forgotten

You are still a
God and i
Can't reach
You.

you
are gone. i can't run
too far.
your legs are too
long. i can't
follow you
anymore.

i know you know,
i don't understand
anything
at all.

who you are,
who you were,
i have no
idea.

and who i am,
who i was,
i don't even
know.

who wrote those,
who sent those,
who read those,
it was only a
dream, dull and
gray.

our islands.

i kept thinking
we
shared a
bond.

Moss-covered voice I've
forgotten long time ago.
I am not my ears.

Is it the music
or your voice that hurts the sky?
[I beg you, don't cry.]

It is her left eye,
opens wider in cloudy
nights. [It will not rain.]

It is never you,
you aren't an idea
nor 2 a.m. thought.

Do you even know
that I still write about you?
Blue moon, cats, o you!

Daisy, it's strange how you become a
flower crown. Soon I will forget where I
put you, although it is always and all the
time on my head.

Forget me not, my chest can no longer feel
the hurt of longing. It was not a longing at
all from the first place, the place where we
stay but do not know each other.

Red rose, you wither, I notice. Now say,
isn't it useless for both of us to keep
changing the water in the vase? Some said
ice cubes would help, but it's been too late.

Jasmine, is it the whiteness or the scent of
the warm tea? I thought of growing you but
I am currently staying in a kind of cold
dorm and you may have some hypothermia.

Soil, and minerals, I would not glorify you
like that. You are no longer a God, I cut the
string connecting you and my lovely earth.
You are just a part of the world, a mere citizen.

*[The geographical errors are still there, not
here anymore, but the roof and all the nice
things we built are now a ruin. But that's it,
really. Let's discuss the opening hours.]

A year, it's been a year.

I promised I would not **** ants
anymore but I just killed them yet again.
My fingers smell like insects and

ammonia in bathroom.
It's just that I haven't died in such

a long time,
daisy, promise me that you will

write about me
on a public bathroom wall
with your wife's grape lipstick.
Buy her one, she would not want to use

the blood-red-from-my-vessels one, but please
tell her
to use the baby cologne I

can buy at the minimarket.

hi, it's friday. i
am saying your name, but no
longer in prayer.