Sometimes
I pause before I move,
careful not to disturb
the space-time continuum.

The butterfly effect
that has been set in motion
feels precious,
so I teach my hands to be gentle.

I remember two keys –
one to a room
I wished so deeply
to share with you.

The other
in an abstract shape
of the right thing
to say.

We both have feelings
for each other,
but there seems to be
a difference...

I wake up with the urgent need
to ask you how you slept,
but you're not there –
you're busy brushing your teeth.

I can see the door.
Everything I’ve ever wished for lies behind it.
But it wants to escape the room –
it doesn’t want to be locked.

Should I peek from a distance,
through the keyhole –
admire it without ever truly having it,
and preserve it as the perfect image?

Or should I open the door,
and try to grasp it
before it slips past me
and runs away forever?

Space is something between us,
that comes into being
when closeness
is replaced by distance.

The need for space is inverse
to the need for love.
It rises and falls
in its reversals.

And space is born even there,
where an outstretched hand
ripples the water’s surface
until the life ring drifts away.

I watch the train depart.
Oh, poor mind of mine,
that cannot yet fathom
the full extent of pain.

There was a clear sky
but then you arrived
a thunderstorm
that rained over me.

I'm all soaked
it's like a summer rain
that you can't help
but fall with.