The story

You are a wonderous piece

Of my imagination;

I have created you

Out of a single thought,

An image stuck in my head.

Breathing between seconds,

Counting time between the heartbeats

I pray for you not to end.

An empty room:

I filled it with you.

Every letter of you

Creates a story,

A story of you.

And maybe me too.

Sentence by sentence,

It grows and fills the room.

Once the door opens,

The story will be over.

Will you be the one

To open the door

When there is no more space

For me in it?

I have built a throne

For my imagination

And let it rule the broken kingdom

Of my dreams,

But the crown

Will always be yours.

It is crafted from shadows in

The deepest corners of my mind,

But it still shines brighter than

Your eyes.

I have lost the game.

Hide-and-seek is over,

And I cannot run away

To hide again.

My inner voice is telling me

To stop.

Should I trust it?

I can feel it staring at me,

Demanding to open the door or look away.

The door…

Is the story over?

I cannot tell.

Pinch me, I think I am dreaming,

Because you do not exist.

You are just a wondrous piece

Of my imagination.



Skin on skin,

The feeling of touch;

No need to see the hands.

Finger pads sliding across the skin surface,

Wavering breathing,

Wrinkled t-shirts on the side of the bed;

Silk sheets are tides

In which both are sinking.

A glance at your lips;

Our eyes meet.

And my heart stops beating.

Smudge of paint

It’s become too late.

Too late for you;

Too late for me.

But my brain keeps painting

Possible pictures

With watercolors of impulses.

Nothing hurts more

Than taking yourself out

Of the naive sentimentalily

That had been in charge until now.

Time doesn’t exist.

Hearbeats are fictional.

Breathing is pretentious.

Life is nothing but

A smudge of paint.