Knock-knock
The door opens
With a creaky sound
Resemblant of that
Of an upright.
I tremble
And dissipate
Under a distinct impression
Of a mellow fingerdrum
As the elder brother rushes
Towards the second son
For a goodbye hug
Or, perhaps, a goodnight kiss.
Walls become wet
And gently crush me
Into a coffee bean sparkling
Glittering mass of yesterdays.
For what was, is and to come
Is surely hidden inside a matchbox
You keep in your inner pocket
To protect from rain, burglary
And other troubles.
Look up at the sky:
I’m standing close to you,
Garlic and tobacco odour included.
Even when I’m not actually
Here.
The stars;
They aren’t other worlds
(although some people say they are);
I propose a toast to my self-control
And to the sweetest place I’ve ever visited —
The corners of your mouth.
Another late-night morphinesque reminiscence
