if only

if only there was something 

that could tell me
which direction to go
after reaching the dead end
to turn back
or

run straight into the wall

the poem i never wrote

 the poem I never wrote

wrote me in its absence

all that is invisible, 

opaque, silent, illegible

lies in the abyss of that poem

in its infinity I lie without knowing

ignorant of its non-existent existence,

absent presence,

is hidden a world of self

in that poem I never wrote

I long for that self

for that smudgy scattered becoming

for that longing itself is where I exist

in the seeking I shall never find..

perhaps we are constructing a world 

where poetry is no longer possible

where we will be incapable 

of writing one, 

of imagining,

of flirting,

of living in a poem, as a poem

incapable of touching one another

we will succumb in the poem 

that no one ever wrote..

5 9 '26

so lightly,

you wish to tread the world

so lightly,

the ground cannot feel your feet

tremble

the dust is left untouched

undisturbed by your weight

for the air to fill your lungs

so lightly, 

it passes without effort

without the suffocation of borders 

that divide the outside 

from the inside

the shadows you cast 

so lightly,

they camouflage 

with fallen 

leaves and flowers and mist and time

a hum escapes your body

so lightly,

as if it were the earth's movements

the waves tiptoeing

the sun bathing at the horizon

you wish the day flies by

so lightly, 

unencumbered,

on the back of birds 

crossing the human worlds 

of weight, of violence, of noise, of despair..

I am enough

because I am what I want to be
not more, not beyond, not fast,
less
is enough
slow, here and now, is enough
not desiring to own
a house, a car, a person
without marriage, children, security
being stably unstable
is enough
a small room, small bed, a cupboard and a kitchen,
small dreams, small group of friends,
a small garden with tiny flowers to take care of,
should be enough.

a warm coffee, a cuddle and a walk on a winter evening
sleeping for long hours without worry,
enjoying few silent moments of happiness
just surviving, one day at a time,
to lead a simple slow life,

perhaps that is enough,
and all I ever want to be..

mine

 all the time there is, is mine

all the movements ever made

all the thoughts ever forgotten

all the light

all the wind, is mine

the sound heard unheard

the touch ever imagined

the silhouettes and shadows

the falls and slumber

every meaning ever meant

every word ever left unsaid

the silence is mine

of me who is a stranger

to myself

from myself

who is nothing

invisible and 

passing by...

abyss

there is a pleasure
in
falling

into an abyss

so much that
no hand can reach
to pull you out

we all like visiting
that place
just to make sure
it exists
and we can return there

when
there's nowhere else to go

guilt

what is this guilt
this deep, strong
guilt of living, of life?
what is the word for it?

climbing the stairs and panting
guilt
sleeping safely in a room
occasionally waking up with a few mosquito bites
guilt
going to watch a movie
and feeling courageous of not conforming
guilt
eating, thrice a day, sometimes even more
and then exercising to lose it
guilt
the sheer possibility to waste,
tons and tons of waste
guilt
to be waited upon
guilt
getting paid at the end of the month
and paying, as well
guilt
having opinions and the liberty to voice them out
and accumulate likes on social media
guilt
missing home, family
guilt
writing poems

how is it possible to be guilty
and cherish the reason behind it,
at the same time?
to preserve it, the guilt, within,
to not let it out,
to cage it inside
and remain punished solely by oneself?