I won’t go on a wild trip with you,
I won’t dance pressed close in the velvet night,
We won’t argue over metaphors.
Our life is a prose of the genre.
Order, paid bills,
bravely divided into fractions.
Locked rooms, forgotten laughter,
and silence that sometimes screams.
A colorful mosaic, a tragicomedy,
By others called an immature farce.
We danced, awkwardly, our tango,
Trying to tame ourselves.
And yet I longed for the warmth of arms
When you slipped away, the Erinyes awoke.
We were imperfect Love,
A set of empty expectations.
Buying me new notebooks and pencils,
You erased what hadn’t worked for us.
Oh irony, going blind, I see more!
Time spares us not, my dear!
I saw that the bags were heavier,
I begged you to stay a little longer,
To celebrate our embittered certainty.
Looking back, I see an empty hall.
Yes, you gave me silence and my own room,
The one I dreamed of for so long.
I don’t dance anymore, no longer sing,
I only write to preserve the memories,
To dissolve the loneliness broken into hours,
I write the meaning of hours brushed by,
I still write of us at times,
Though we faded into the completed past.