for the distance, the blessing and the curse
in this forgetful bed, on this blank page
I sit as quiet as an empty hourglass
so used to contemplate the wounded pride
of desolation
the dilemma in your steps, the missing link
happiness just an eclipse
an accident on unmapped streets
-space is just the exhaustion of time-
worlds of words caught up in their embryo
crushed there,
their innocence stripped away
paper-thin dreams chased away like useless creatures
from your back burdened with the same shame and
no soft tissue for your tears

if only I could say this loud enough:
love is the courage in our cells
disambiguation
and there will be a day -
no more fear
no more far away

one step one day

love's ecstasy,
a roadkill
losing itself
in the rearview,
in a zombified sway

one day one step

stuttered thrive,
now you will,
now you won't,
oh but the horizon
is a watercolour
and you hold a rainbow
on a string

one step one day

one night
all the way,
you know it,
its lava bubbling,
hollowed in black

one day one step

nothing lays ahead
and it doesn't matter,
your mumbling
was meant to be,
childish like,
learning to walk
failing the fall

one step one day

It might take me years
To dislodge myself from
Life – this magma which has swallowed me,
And be out of the reach of neighbour gossip.
To emerge from a fight not mine.
You were there, privileged angel in the dark,
Amused at my faux ferocity,
Recalling the courage of my first days,
When I was unconcerned about
What place I’d fall asleep in.
Not yet understanding
The human need to cling to a past.
Always ready to give myself away.

You watched from above
The prose of my struggles,
In the web of our common suffocation.
You knew how to be the cruel one,
To leave everything behind, in a town to which
You would never return.
Today I fear the drizzle,
I fear the fog.
I never forget my umbrella at home.
I mind the hustle of the quay,
Unusual at this early hour.
I cherish the noises which accompany my coffee on the terrace.
I watch helplessly, in exasperation,
These faces of common poems
Which harbours always hold.

Constantin Abaluta, from *It Might Take Me Years

my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.

the moonface
pushpulls me.

i am
moved
too much.

i am
not enough
mover.

i am *****
given,
all too often.

i am
not
me -

i am you
in your supine
palm.

i matter
little.

my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,

vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which

seems real
-so real-

real
like
when

the kitchen
sink
disposal

runs.