as my eyes touch the tender ground of the page, slightly coarse from
the one who read before
I tell myself it’s nothing
as I do so often
trying to escape the complete disillusion of what happened to me
my body does not deceive me anymore, so it must have been a light poke
that tried to wake me as I sit on this stone that was put here by someone who
who
who
I don’t know who.
I just came there a lot by myself, I guess. It used to be my place, in shadow of the church. In the 90-degree angle that was my summer two years ago. I drove down with my bike, or sometimes walked in the shadow of empty market halls and sirens screeching in the background. The sound of this city is a cruel but comforting one, as is the stone I was
I am
sitting on.
I don’t know how I was doing it. The air from one of the apartments across the river was propelling towards me, at a speed which was making me leave this place once and for all. The last time. Here I am
I was
Leaving.
I want to leave already.
But there’s so many more nights
that will feel ambivalent.
but that I will not feel ambivalent towards.
the page doesn’t turn. The eyes never wander.
They are fixed, nailed into this sight of desperation and final happiness.
Still, everything goes on and wanders, without my eyes.
I remember the trees and their markings around the stone. I sat there with them once. They were visiting me. No, we were visiting. We were visiting a future of me that I couldn’t imagine, and that future is visiting me now, as I don’t sit on the stone itself anymore. But I carry the stone around with me, in a better and kinder sense that is usually implied with that figure of speech.
It’s like the time you were leaving a succulent in the bed in front of that café, someone remembers now.
I want to show you the stone, the sound and let you smell the air.
It’s not what’s on the page but the touch that was left there by somebody before you.
You can almost see it, if you listen closely.