Ah the intimacy of houses
in lit windows
scented kitchens
clothes hanged out to dry

Ah the intimacy of houses
seemingly cosy
and quietly caring
in the twilight

Ah the intimacy of houses
a chair on a fallen porch
foretold absentees
ah the intimacy of time

Yap, tale,
me the dog
(here, a wow, what? please),
in circles we go,
a merry go round,
if only I could be
the ballerina...,
oh but no,
I can't dance,
not allowed,
I just turn and flip,
yap, flipped mind,
chasing a tale,
round and round,
I use words for a rebound,
winded up, in shall not.

In the steamed mirror,
I looked my mother in the eyes:
*well, hello there, what?,
yeah, we did it,
messed it all up again."

I ran out of words.
No... not words.
I ran out of feelings.
Although...
I ran out of purpose.
Okay, let it go.
I ran out on purpose.
Nope.
This is not it.
It rains. In me.*
There.

Such a fascination!
A line or less
and the story was done,
we'd leave the cinema
with dreamy eyes,
maybe a sense of relieve
for exiting that parallel world.

We'd step fiercely,
a heroe to be,
can't you see?,
underneath the costume.

But then the end
comes in front of us,
its symphonical pomp
is a seed of fear
and we grow a human size,
a small one.

A cheap tape and the line
stutters the end the end the end.
One by one, all characters
in our own story
desert the scene and
we roam in a parallel world
of unfamiliar faces
where memories lack of proof.

There we stand or not so,
heroes of loss, on our own,
and a line or less, the end,
overlaps a swirl
of autumn leaves.

(You may all leave, now:
there are no credits
in one-man-size productions.)

(for a.)*

mapped wishes
handed over,
blown into the wind

a path of gold
in dawning roads

sanguine brilliance,
pearled frailty

fallen

flattened
crackling

a tracery
of bones or hands

reaching out
for the ******
of a beginning

time walks.
giant steps
carving
an absence,
a heart shaped
niche.

time walks.
rosary stones
ground
into nothing.
not an echo
nor a breeze.