Poetry easies [my] fluidity, releases
[my] tensions.
Prose constrains [me] them.
Whitman, Emerson,
Envy your thoughts and follow them noiselessly.
Long for you at night, at the sunrise.
Never saw you.
Always thought of you.
The sun still awaits for [us] to be.
Saw you in places, in foreigners’ faces.
Heard your distant voice.
Remember you makes me alive and dead, both.
My hands are cold, I am still here, and there.
Tried to talk with you in the distance, at a times works, at a times.
Come and love me, hold me tight, I still trust you. I long for your hands and your voice. Your rosy lipstick.
Kiss me good night. Come and do not go.
I am scared but I started to forget it. I am tired.
My heart feels no longer tender, Lethe had done it.
I see your eyes in my eyes, your complexion in mine. Come
and see me. Love me, I do it always silently, wish you, long for you.
The time is true and false.
My heart has a missing part since you left and not returned. Turn around, now.
I turned but you were gone. Opened eyes, opened heart, gone.
Come.
I am waiting, still, stand.
No rush, I have been waiting, I do not remember for how long, I just prefer not to.
Give me my heart back, I have been limping since you left.
Turn around,
I am waiting still, stand for you.
I forgave you for not to be. I am trying. Come back and kiss me good night.
I needed you, still, always.
I pray for you before I sleep and send you pieces of love.
Have you ever received them?