we own teacups
of porcelain   that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied

we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam          rise                    and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time     slowly they get out of mind

one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes   in memory     nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)

these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee          and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently       never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware,     cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled,        coffee          and         tea.

I always thought of her          as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and     sipped       like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)

there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian

I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks    if she
wants coffee.

There is a calmness after a storm to remind you nothing is permanent; not even the storms that once roared so fiercely, not even the calmness after. There is no calmness when he walked away but there was no storm either, his footsteps werent puddles and he wasnt a rain cloud. The house didnt shake and the furniture didnt rattle the only thing that did, was your frame but there was no calmness because inside you was a hurricane composed of regret and remorse and confusion and longing shook you in every thought you harboured and ached in every breath you took until it was too much to contain and you see the storm in your eyes and hear the thunder in your screams. You wonder what you can do the calm the raging storm what can you do; sixteen is not an adequate age to be handling storms well enough to not leave a mess of an aftermath. But all storms will eventually cease and so will this, and in the silence of the night you are kept awake trying to remember the calmness before the storm, and after it. Outside the wind is howling and it is a beautiful sound; the downpour steady, it keeps you at peace and before the soft cosmic rays of dawn reaches your windowsill on nights like these,you anticipate another storm.

Im boarding a metro in a city you've been to, two seasons before, venturing a street that you've walked back in summer  trying to see what you saw, like that unusual statue you were so fond of. I did find it, I think, that it looks better in your photos. Im looking out from the window of a small teahouse I came across, wedged inside a small alley. I wonder if you've ever found this little place-you'd probably fall in love with it more than I do. I guess a city looks offbeat in changing seasons, like the way you'd always be able to tell twins apart, but how they tend to be so similar in so many ways. Im here trying to adjust my scarf and it is not easy to think how you were snacking on your third ice cream and complaining how tropical the weather here was. You are eccentric about the places you go, in a foreign city with nothing but a map and hand signs to rely on, telling me about that one little shop on a street with a name I've never heard of, In a city with more metro lines than my fingers could possibly count, with such longing to return to that I, wondered what caused you to be such attached to a place where no one could understand you, that people walked in a different pace and spoke in a different tongue, that rain there didnt fall as often as it did here, back where you were telling me about unfamiliar cities. I am, constantly thinking, more about the cities you've told me about, and less about you. It wasnt until I got lost in the same city the same way you did that I realised I loved the way you portrayed places more than the actual place itself because two seasons later, I find myself looking for the ghost of you in a city I've never been to.

I.
I know you do not want to be known
as the teary-eyed girl with an upside down smile
always your arms covered
like unhappy things resided beneath the bright coloured sleeves
like these vibrant distractions could hide the secrets
you feared so       that would come to light someday
and your sorrow so heavy they slowed your footsteps, making your thoughts an overweight baggage you have been forced to drag along, so suffocating you'd wake up with a tear streaked face while the faint ticking of the clock tells you that you
are nowhere near dawn
the house has long fallen asleep but you,
why are you awake
what kept you from sleeping
is the silence too overwhelming to bear
or your thoughts too deafening to ignore
the house has long fallen asleep but you,
you dont know whether to laugh
or to cry

II.
Mother never told you about things that were more dangerous than knives, that there were things that burned you more than stoves and matches, things that do not have sharp edges, like doe eyed boys with a laugh like the sound leaves you'd find at the pavement being rustled by the occasional breeze in June, both the breeze and his voice on top of your list of the unexpected. Mother never told you that the greater danger were the things that do not hold an absolute form, like the way your doe eyed boy kissed you, for the very first time one summer night in June. He held you so tightly. And every kiss never felt the same, and you loved every one of them nevertheless. He left eventually. And you were left with a mess of feelings and a pile of broken heart pieces you tried so hard to piece back into one but the fractured pieces didnt seem to fit back in properly. Those were the things that kept you up for nights, the things school never prepared you for. But I want you to know you are more than the girl with sad eyes standing in the corner of a washed up family photograph, and I know you will love again, you would fall to pieces and drink yourself senseless and scream at the stars, but I know you will love again.

Monday was the languidly curling wisps of steam
the cup of tea you didnt drink

Tuesday was the pale clouds hovering to the waves roaring
trying to keep up with your heart's beating

Wednesday was the phone you left uncharged the night before
your lover who left before you saw

Thursday was the lazy morning the window panes foggy
you woke up 10.00am your vision still hazy

Friday was sobranie
sweetly sickly you try to drown your worries

Saturday was the night sky starless
you sat beneath it, sleepless

Sunday was the low rumbling of the train tracks
blue skies turned into black

sometimes I wonder
how it would be like, coming to a
standstill in the middle of the road
back facing the traffic flow
I wouldnt even see it coming
15, my parents left me this walking equivalent of insecurity
and self loathe and really, nothing good
comes out from this.

07:00
there was knocking on my door
and a quiet voice
asking for me to let in

when I finally got
to open the door
there was no trace of anyone
not my sister
who never knocked so softly
always two quick knocks
not my father
who bangs on the door
as if I've stolen something from him and now he wants it back
no, no one was at the door
nor the corridor
nor the winding stairs that resembled the shriveled oak tree
we admired so. (she turned a hundred last year)

no, my only visitor
was the sunlight
creeping her way in softly, silently
through the square glass windows

I admit I am not a morning person
(wrong. I am not a waking up at 07:00 person)
if my ghosts are trying to wake me up,
its 07:00,                                   too early.

you forgot to lock the door after you left
you also forgot to unlock the door between us
maybe both of us did not know how to love each other
or maybe I couldnt love you the way you wanted to
or you couldnt love a demanding wreck how she wanted to be
that we were two intersecting lines that somehow returned to being parallel
there is light cast on the solid concrete walls
and nights you dont return you're not supposed to
at fifteen I left myself wondering why no one would love me
at fifteen I couldnt give myself an answer, no one else could either
I smell like cigarettes I didnt smoke and regretted words I didnt say
and left love hanging in mid-air when you forgot
to lock the door after you walked out of.