I only exist in fragments of time,
and so is my love.
You had me whole
in a night of tenderness.
I knew kindness and bliss
enough to turn you into a sweet memory.

"Why can't it happen again?
Why do you have to turn me into a memory
the moment you walk out of that room?"
You said I lived and loved
as a story teller.
Quite a story you were.

I cannot keep killing you,
but you are not able to let me go.
Perhaps I am not either.

Thus I wonder how to write a wonderful story
without having it falling in love with me
or myself falling in love with it.

Poetry of the ones who are lonely
are not the same as poetry the ones who are lonely
without someone.

I have always known,
once I let you into this room called my heart,
it will never feel the same when you leave.

And yet I do, I do again and over,
you are my every lover, my any lover,
I have never stopped loving you.

You are the life of my words.
My readers do not know you, but they too,
have known how any love could hurt.

Poetry hurts because poetry is love
and because poetry is you.
Without you I would never have found inside myself a poet.

The world could do with one less lover. One less poet.
But I could not have become me without you and my poetry.
And the meaning of my life is just as simple as that.

Let me take you to the realm of the past.
You know it was not pretty, you know it was sad.
But it was me before you arrived;
I was darkness before you were light.

I went through many lifetimes, many fights,
many women, many regrets.
I've never stopped loving any of those eyes
when they looked at my back as I left our beds.

The nights when I sneaked out and made phone calls,
tried to pretend that in the morning they would be all gone.
I thought I could hear the sighs, so soft,
tearing through the blind of darkness like thorns.

The same torment you all inflict upon yourselves
has got me immunized. I've watched every single one
walking out of my life after slapping on my face.
Where do you draw that strength from such little hands?

I feel you wanting to run away from me.
I feel you growing scared, worrying you have already
fallen into a deep trap. But neither of us
is meant to escape love, this love we have.

You tell me you're smelling death, and your face
has turned purple. I sit and watch you
struggle with your emotions, with your pains,
and as always I feel completely helpless.

If I ask you now, "Do you love me?",
you will say no. You are still in love
with him. Have you ever, for a split second,
realized he only exists in your mind?

You are fearful and so am I,
we are as flawed as the world we live in
and it is alright. Those who long for ideals
always find a way to survive disappointments,
or shall I say, reality.

The only ones who have committed suicide
are those who think they could put up with life,
who underestimate the way vanity takes a toll on them,
and at the crack of the sky, find themselves deceived,
so they jump under the flat surface of hope,
get everything in them shot with multiple bullets,
until it is too late to realize the lack of meaning
of their final decision, like many preceding others.

We are not like that, my love, and we love,
and I will make you love me instead of him,
because I am real, and so are you. I want you
to know how hard it is to want another person.
And our shared darkness has just only begun.

I am thinking of you,
the sincerity of your thoughts,
how you deal with emotions,
you do not know any better than running away,
in circles of isolation,
and when I restrained myself from running to you
and gave you time and space,
you thought I gave up on you.

"Did you really think I would give up on you?
I was the one who thought you gave up on me."

"No, why would you ever think so,
if nothing had happened, if there had been no clue
of me leaving?"

We keep each other hanging,
as this rising discomfort
tightens around our neck.
We keep questioning ourselves
and others that we love
and us.

"Don't give up on me," you said.
How could I?
Do you really think I know how?
We are just two helpless creatures
facing each other
in the midst of our craving for affection.
So much to give, so hesitant to receive.

What are we going to do now?
If we are so alike, is it wise
for us to, maybe,
you know,
fall in love?

The rainy days in this town,
the trembling wind, and how
I live so close to the river,
which turns grey as the water
rises with millions of bubbles ,
remind me
of home.

Home is only a restless sleep away.

Over that vast ocean, on the dark sky,
I seemed to be the only one awake,
so wide awake in my thoughts,
knowing I could, or perhaps not,
find myself again.
Maybe you, too,
have lost yourself in between
two pins on a map.

But I am not on that plane.
I am sitting
at the high coffee table,
hearing the wind howl
around the trees, as my window
is left open.

And I wish I were light enough
to be carried away
not to home
but somewhere, somewhere else,
I do not know,
maybe some ocean sea
maybe some tall mountain
or wherever without the humans
and there, leave me in the heightened cold.

Though I would rather
for that mighty wind
to be strong enough, so my departure
would not take too long.
I hate things that linger;
they never do me any good
Things, like memories,
pain,
longing,
goodbye's.
Thus I whisper,
"I'll go now, and please,
make it quick."

But my wind,
so distracted by the rain,
keeps passing without hearing me.

I'm telling you,
it is not so easy, after all,
to be granted such a simple wish
on a rainy day.

Why do we keep hurting each other?

How much longer can I live your dream
before losing mine completely?

What more can I do to please you
before forgetting what pleases me?

How farther away can I go
for us to be closer to one another?

When will you be able to listen to me
without letting your voice take over your head?

No matter what I do what I say how much I try where I am
you cannot let go of my life
I cannot let go of the life you force upon me.

You have a way to make me feel
useless
like I always felt, when I wanted
more than once
to escape.
The only place where that is possible
is somewhere else but this Earth.

From time to time
I feel like I am just a kid
being manipulated
by your expectations.
You cannot stop worrying about me.
I cannot stop worrying about you worrying about me.
I am tired of trying to maintain the fake peace around us,
of not being able to tell you how tired I have got
especially now.

How do I gather the courage
to stop thinking too much,
which does not help at all,
to simply let go
of everything?

did you see her?

oh, dear god, why
did she pull
the trigger?
where did she get
the gun?

she was sweet
and caring
and everything
but now she is
dead
no one thought she was
the kind
who could take her own
life

did you hear
she left a notebook
full of her life secrets?

****, I wonder
what she wrote
in it

do you think
it would explain
everything?

I wonder
what she was
thinking
that moment
when she was alone,
in her room,
with the ugly gun
staring right into
her heart.