Friday, May 29, 2015


Night laid down
and I started the tale
“Once upon a time
a star and a moon
lived in darkness
happily ever after…”

I kissed night on her forehead
and it turned to breath
into my chest


Thursday, May 28, 2015


Hudson is in labor,
Atlantic brings you to life
and puts you in my arms.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Ever After

Previously published by: Yellow Chair Review

I saw her white body half hanging on the bed where we had made love so many times. We had rented that apartment room and it had been our sanctuary. Now it was an open grave where she ended her life. I was numb as if death had captured me too. Why did she come here of all places? Why did she call me and didn't wait for me? Why was she so desperate to die like this? Her arms had been cut and the blood was crispy dry. For a moment I wished it was wine and that she'd jump up on me, hug me and kiss me. Yet, life didn't make a move on her. It remained still and sad reminding me that death is not the opposite of life, or the absence of it - it is eternity, empty and lonely.

I stopped looking at her and took a look around the room. Her clothes were on the burgundy carpet, taken off carelessly as if she was there to make love, the arm chair was moved too, as if she wanted to remind herself of my presence, the beige curtains were shut, yet the window was opened. I was numb again. She was there, red and white; lifeless. I felt the power of revenge in the room and moved myself back. I wanted to go out, but forgot that I had locked the door after I got in. As I was turning the key I took a last look at her. She was holding something in her hand. I walked toward her body and touched her. I was cold, just like her. It felt as if eternity with its loneliness was entering into my veins, too. I opened her hand. She had written on her palm: "Take it!" and I noticed the ring fall on the floor. It didn't make a noise, as if that too was falling in a void taking me with it while I tried to reach for it. I felt my hand shake as I picked the ring from the floor. Life had come back to me, punishing me with her last good-bye. I remembered when she once said that the ring is not the symbol of eternal love, but the eternal void that it holds within.

I ran outside and got into the car. She was there, in the back seat. I drove and saw the reflection of us in the rear view mirror. It was raining and we were making love covered by the flow of rain on the windows. The clarity of that watery curtain gave me peace and I kept looking at the mirror. She was kissing me and I was touching her breasts. I was drowning in her body. She was my ocean, my abyss… my woman, yet she died again and I felt as if I fell on rocky ground and broke like sand out of an hourglass. However I didn’t hurt. I felt naturally grained, dry and hot. The rain was over. All that was left was the mark of our breaths on the windows: the last fog of life. The mirror reflected a golden glimmer of something that I had long forgotten: it was a small cross. It had fallen off her neck. It didn’t have a chain. I pulled over and stopped the car, and reached to take it. It was so light, like a flake. I wondered if she had taken all the weight of gold with her! The mirror reflected nothing anymore. All that was behind was the empty road.

I drove to the place where we made love for the first time. She was there. It was a nice park by a creek. The water flowed slowly making a soft murmuring noise. She drew near to me and put her arms around me. She was alive again. I kissed her on the shoulder and put my hands on her lips. They were red and moist with love. She looked me in the eye and sat on the grass pulling me to herself. We laid on the ground and were looking at the trees above us, listening to the eternal song of water. She closed her eyes and suddenly everything became dark. The water turned into mud and the trees vanished as if a tornado passed by. I was alone and she was dead again. She died here where she first kissed me, where she first gave herself to me, where I first promised love to her.

She died three times today not giving me a chance to hope that she will return. She died in everything where she lived and made sure I was lonely, just like she had been, ever since she had met me.

Monday, May 25, 2015

The meaning of spring

It's days like this that make me understand the meaning of spring... she holds the sky's tears and her beauty is nothing less than the room of comfort where grey crashes in for a while; she's the clinic where an addicted heaven finds its path to redemption.... yes, that's spring.