When it comes to you
I become stupid
And my heart goes into sorrow
Listens to the sounds we made
When we know what we were

When it comes to me
I don’t know what a goodbye can bid
But a desire taking a blow
And memories that now in fade
As we grow from who we were

I died yesterday
and the day before that
and the day before that

To what do I owe the pleasure?

A second, a minute, an hour
A breath from time and again after that
A month, a year, a lifetime

A step, at a moment – a certain moment
An absence, a disappointment, an alienation
A second, a minute, an hour
A breath from time and again after that
A month, a year, a long time of regret

A step, at a moment – a certain moment
An absence, a disappointment, a longing

What could’ve been of us if those steps
were a little different even in the slightest?
What could we have if only there was
an easier way to reaach to each other?

If I will ever get old,
Every morning I will be sitting
somewhere in my house
Already prepared to hear every bit
from the ticking clock
that hanged on my neck

I will be counting along from one to several hundreds
Until I cough and start over again -
another several hundreds
Second by second

I will be staring at the screen
There will be news or some fictional stories -
And the moving lips and the sounds of words
Will keep me company

I will be thinking that time feels different
A memory can be played in my head
And a second will be long enough for it
Too long to me to see again
If I will ever get older

I stared and stared deep
to the eyes across the mirror
and drown and down,
Which one of us can immerse our souls
and feel belong?

Sounds started to fade away
the moment when it counts
that one time,
Which one of us, when it counts,
not listening to the deafening silence?

When I opened my old book and wander through the pages
I saw a two years old heart-shaped origami book marker
And it was just yesterday when I opened my eyes
and wander through the night
I saw the two hands that made it
Two years, mind me, since I touched you with a smile
because every fold of it mean the remaining pieces
that I can hold still
As of every word I read and every second I spent reading –
your two hands were turning and holding these pages
to and fro as if you never left.

If I should die and you are somewhere breathing the air
Don’t remember my name or whatever that means
I’m just going to be happy to be free
The grace of it – to be dead inside out
and falling to nowhere and just wishing that I am the air

If I should die and you are somewhere afraid
don’t remember the last time you get out of bed
The damages are with you and out there
The pain of it – to wake up knowing you’re hurt
when we are years away and despite how close we lay

One took the stand on the benefit of the doubt. Even that could not put one’s head to rest. To a break desired by every one of us. And how, that even sleep was no less exhausting than catching one’s breath?

Then,
of the silenced, the ignored. They got all but attention. They got all but to be taken seriously. They got all but respect and a pair of ears. There was not a thing anywhere around. Only of those scents of the silenced and the ignored. Haunting. Lurking.

Then,
an emptiness. A sound. An empty sound. Creaking. Only can be heard in a duration as long as a gunfire. It was, perhaps a gunfire in every possible way of meaning. And yet it killed none. No. It inflicted no wound. None from that.

Then,
an evening. A cherished past. A separation. A doubt. A confusion of the unanswered. A colossal anxiety. A chaotic riot. They rose. They slew. No bullets could have done such scale. And yet it killed. Down and down and down, every reason that kept one’s standing. Even the dearest part of one’s reason to walk all the road: The meaning. And down it did – till all but one: The preacher.

Then,
kept breathing – breathing – though breathing was no easier than anything. No less difficult than to do one thing it always did. “It’s over.” Breathing. “It has already been over.” Breathing. “For long, you knew it from head to heart: It was over”. And the rest was just the preacher’s breath to and fro. Filling the silence left by the wind.

Then,
a breeze. A sound. A silence. A recurring wounds. A grasp of emotions. A thought. An unpreparedness. A heavy head and heavy heart. An unclear pursuit.  A clouded mind. A fiery anger. A crippling grief. A haunting ghost. An empty belief. A void longing. A lethal truth. A restless. A failed attempt. A sleep beyond the reach. A tired man. Of a sound, a silence, a memory.

Then,
the morning has come.