In the noose on a dusty loft
or the thunderous champagne fizz,
in the so everlasting mist
of this life, so unjust and morose
what gentler death there is
than to the hand of love?

It's Tuesday, August fifth,
wind's brushing alleys, streets
where we no longer exist,
where estrangement completes

the picture we once took
together, and commits
suicide just to leave
the outside to the heat.

And as i sit and sip
my coffee, i can hear
departures of the dew
from its beloved leaves,

and back, again, it brings
the so unneeded plea
of my soul's deepest hue-

a reminiscent you
in a still present me.

"What is truth?", Pilate then asked,
turning his back, about to leave,
"I bear-", replied the Lamb of God,
"... witness to truth. The truth is me."

A question posed so long ago,
but to this day ferments the mind,
as though a cataract which grows
to leave the eye completely blind

and doom a Man to only seeing
the world as flat and lacking depth,
a half-a-lie or  half-a-meaning,
but bear a cross of equal weight.

Terraces, people, smoke
rising above their heads,
all of them hiding talks
in the so-needed shade.

Everyone's outside,
interior's empty, but
i think i will go inside,
into the silent gut

of this cafe that i have
been to so many times.
It's seen me when things were rough,
granted it's seen my smiles.

Two weeks left until again
the calendar sheds a year.
The volatility of Men
forces the eye to tear.

Twenty-two, although not much,
is more than i've ever been,
and it seems my time tries to catch
up to the time after me.

What is it that i feel?
hard to tell, stillness perhaps,
but pinned down with barren fear.
But had i another chance

to choose what i could've been,
with all of my blunders in sight,
i still would have chosen me
and still would have come inside.

Having been safely tucked
into the sleeve of my congenital distortion,
i do my time at mercy of today's luck
but still consist of yesterday's misfortune.

Hear the steps?
Past the curfew - two feet, counting stairs,
of a drunk man, who's stiffness is eerie.
It's the sound of me climbing up to my place
where there's no one to be doing the hearing.

Hear the jingle?
It's the finger in search of a key,
of a man who's had not enough spirit.
Would my loneliness also abandon me,
if I managed to fall in love with it?