You have the most pleasant touch,
most pleasant eyes, most pleasant wrinkles.
Kotschka, you have turned me into a fire
without knowing it, without seeing it.
Now that you do, look at me and show
me remorse, and give me your condolences.
This is my very first time saying this:
I died when you looked at me
and I died when you said 'hi.'
I died when you smiled,
and I died again when you touched me.
This is how it's going to be, but know
that I can die again and again
as long as it's for you and because of you.

You know I read your books, right?
You've always fascinated me with your eyes -
very sparkly, dauntless, always looking for an ending.
The truth will be out, and I guess you will never
linger again with your systematic veins to which
I have become attached. Like a weapon in the making,
your silvery hair creating a shimmer across
my bedroom window. And it stains the whole atmosphere;
when you left and went back with your hobby -
knitting, fixing everyone but yourself, and to cavalry, too.
They're burning your throat, but you insist on saying
that you're becoming more at peace and unbothered,
like a succulent, but I don't see it that way.
I see lots of empty pieces behind you
and the places you went back in that no one thinks
you did. As well as the people you tried to ran away
from and the people you've left behind, only to find out
that they are the one. I am the one.
Don't worry, you've always been sunlight. I'd still pack
your bags when we go for a trip together,
and I'd still cook your favorite dish while
you scrutinize my behavior. Am I your date or your lover?
Don't you think we've come so far?
Don't you think I read you too much like your books?

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

the angels have brought me once again
with all the figs and then there's Josephine,
she shook my hands when all my sins
sunken deep into the water I could still dive in
vanilla dreams, that's why I bought it
I might be reckless and he might be adrift
crippled by the anchor and tossed by a scale
to be vile is easy until you have to admit that you fail
if he weren't a prince and I wasn't a flame
then he was a game I couldn't blame

unprecedented, Josephine says.
with a cup of tea, I have been sold to a past
one for the cigarette and one for the lass
The 4th of May ended well for everyone but me
and heaven was too confident I could handle it
it was too early to cry so I stared at the screen instead
I will privately pour the glass with my words unsaid
not the wine, not today, not tonight
if I'm weighing you down, here is a green light

call me the loudest sinner
floating, scattering my trash in the sea
with my unsuspected heartbreaks in winter.

(we brew a damsel's flesh... then make a gentleman drink, for what's left has to be given and what we can only give... epic. ourselves.)

once they swallow my vision and rosy touch,
they might as well have swallowed my tribulation and such.