Dusty, warm sunlight leaves the room
in afternoon silence.
Everything is calm, no one is here.
They left me, he left me.
The pipe still lingers lightly on my lap,
tobacco spread on a white,
old sloppy handkerchief.
The smell of onions, cooked long ago,
still sticks to the walls.
I am alone but I am here
where I've always been.

My feet on cold stone.
My warm wooden legs,
massive, indestructible.
Still, not massive enough
to keep the father from slamming the mother,
who cried cutting onions.
She fell off of me.

I am solid, I give comfort.
I've always been here and always will be.
Where is he?
I remember his little limbs on my lap
in worn-out fisher's jeans;
young, relentless,
dreaming of tomorrow.
A blithe smile, his eyes full of shimmering hope.
I remember his bones growing bigger,
his weight becoming heavier on my basket top.
I remember him sitting and waiting;
waiting for his long lost pa as he was growing
as old as they had been.

The air is cold now, the sunlight is gone.
No smell of tobacco,
no snoring after hours of sitting.
No shimmering eyes,
no smile around his lips,
grim around his chin.
There will always be a tomorrow for me,
but, I am afraid,
there is no tomorrow for him.

the talking one.
a quite confident one.
a quite quiet one. pretty quiet.
shamefully quiet sometimes.
surprisingly loud sometimes.

the writing one.
a very honest one.
a very sensitive one.
thinking thoughts in written words.
writing novels about a thought.
writing everything.
writing down the soul.

sometimes the writing one is not compatible with the talking one.
sometimes you would think of two different ones.
sometimes you get a hint from the talking one.
sometimes you only understand the talking one with listening to the writing one.
sometimes you can't understand the talking one knowing the writing one.

the feeling one.
very breakable.
broken many times.
strong. decided. restless.
almost a twin of the writing one.
the feeling one talks a lot to the writing one.
it tries to bring the writing one to tell the talking one what's going on.
It doesn't always work.
the feeling one wants to be alone sometimes.
in fact, the feeling one is quite lonely.

that's why she always reaches out to the writing one.
the writing one is very patient.
the writing one teaches the talking one to
communicate with the feeling one.
Maybe one time they'll be one.

I walk on a long road
endless road
no one there, no one there
I started losing
they are falling down
the parts
the one of her
the one part is already missing
a flesh wound is craving down my leg
it's getting wider
pieces are falling out
one by one till no one is left
I am walking alone
again,
I am alone.

caress my skin
take a while
take a breath
hide away
spend a little time
all I do
your look
your eyes
you are
because eyes see you
they meet
they create
they caress your skin