#belgrade - Hello Poetry

At 1am I read a poem about a girl licking gelato off someone's spoon. Then one about David. The statue. Cracking under a pink sky. Florence at night. The poet is twenty-five. I scroll back up. Read the same line four times. “Attention is my currency.” I put my phone on the kitchen table. The kettle is cold. Has been for hours. He has another poem about mirrors. About becoming what people need. About disappearing into reflections. I understand that. Because I have been twenty-five and still don't know how to say “I am cold” without apologizing first. Outside, Belgrade is quiet. Somewhere in America a guy is writing about David cracking and wolves in forests and gelato on spoons. He thinks he is a monster. He is not a monster. He is twenty-five. That's worse. My neighbor upstairs drops something heavy again. Humanity survives loudly. I close the phone. The kettle is still cold. I should probably boil it. I should probably sleep. I should probably stop reading his poems at 1am. But his voice sounds like someone trying very carefully not to disappear. And I recognize that. Because I own three blankets for emotional emergencies and still forget to text people back. The kettle finally starts screaming from the stove. Somewhere in America a twenty-five-year-old man is probably apologizing for wanting to be loved too much. I pour the water anyway.

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May 3

May 3, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC

MarcoK

Reading Griz at 1am

At 1am I read a poem about a girl licking gelato off someone's spoon. Then one about David. The statue. Cracking under a pink sky. Florence at night. The poet is twenty-five. I scroll back up. Read the same line four times. “Attention is my currency.” I put my phone on the kitchen table. The kettle is cold. Has been for hours. He has another poem about mirrors. About becoming what people need. About disappearing into reflections. I understand that. Because I have been twenty-five and still don't know how to say “I am cold” without apologizing first. Outside, Belgrade is quiet. Somewhere in America a guy is writing about David cracking and wolves in forests and gelato on spoons. He thinks he is a monster. He is not a monster. He is twenty-five. That's worse. My neighbor upstairs drops something heavy again. Humanity survives loudly. I close the phone. The kettle is still cold. I should probably boil it. I should probably sleep. I should probably stop reading his poems at 1am. But his voice sounds like someone trying very carefully not to disappear. And I recognize that. Because I own three blankets for emotional emergencies and still forget to text people back. The kettle finally starts screaming from the stove. Somewhere in America a twenty-five-year-old man is probably apologizing for wanting to be loved too much. I pour the water anyway.

54

How close is the gap between the cliffs As if you could hop off all of a sudden But the people wall between us and we have no skiff Only you understood the little things as it was your skill That last corner before you disappeared has a particle left You became smaller in the same way of the repellent seagull Disappeared as he does above the infinite sea That last corner is where I kept your last particle left Waiting to give it back only to you when we are no more cleft

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May 6, 2021

May 6, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC

m-kemal

That Corner

How close is the gap between the cliffs As if you could hop off all of a sudden But the people wall between us and we have no skiff Only you understood the little things as it was your skill That last corner before you disappeared has a particle left You became smaller in the same way of the repellent seagull Disappeared as he does above the infinite sea That last corner is where I kept your last particle left Waiting to give it back only to you when we are no more cleft

9

I walked with her from The Blocks to the book shop later we drank homemade wine in her crumbling house I smelled sweet cakes and Japanese love poems Have you met Edith? she asked (as have many others) but I only had eyes for her.

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Oct 14, 2017

Oct 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC

abrahampinhas

Block Song

I walked with her from The Blocks to the book shop later we drank homemade wine in her crumbling house I smelled sweet cakes and Japanese love poems Have you met Edith? she asked (as have many others) but I only had eyes for her.

13