SPILLED INK

I don’t know

if I should

grab a pen

or a brush

so

I grab a pen and paper

and instead of

write

I

erase

I think

about buildings

lately

and how the rich

build towards

the sky

and the poor

towards

the earth

while heaven is up

and

hell

is always

down

Days go by

slowly and

with a quiet sound

that I now start

to understand

my plants

are steadily

growing

reminding me

that speed

is a subjective

matter

while I begin

to doubt

about the

meaning of

it all

The time is

03:47

and my

heartbeat

is older than

an hour

I can’t say i am

my best

self but

I am for sure

my favorite

until today

SUNDAY MORNING HAVING COFFEE WITHOUT A CIGARETTE

Time

is my biggest fear

during times

when time was

insignificant

during times

as a waitress

and the long shifts

while pouring

new drinks

to men

from the countryside

trying to escape

from their wifes and

trying to make

time

during times

in sales

and team meetings

for evaluating

the lack of performance

during my times

as a future wife

and the conversations

about feelings

and my disregard

for emotional support

and bonding

time

it was always time

Or

the lack of it

THE 5 SENSES OF MEMORY UNTIL MEMORY BECAME THE 6TH

Waking up with

stripes of sun

crawling through

wooden shutters

and the smell

of heated pine trees

pinching 3 cats

sleeping underneath

dust flying in the air

sparkling in all of its glory

slowly descending

and gently sit upon

a couch that has lived

through the war

and a blanket that was

knitted when staying alive

was a matter of lack.

drumming sounds of cutlery and pots

clinging with each other

flip flops shuffling on

nicked marble floors

and widowed neighbours

for 45 years over the fence

discussing

about The moon

and its impact

on fishing

or how the river dried out

and tomatoes will come

later this year.

two shovels in harmony

splitting the ground in two

liberating ants and worms

that will be introduced

to my backyard

for their first time

the old man stays loyal

to his simple daily pleasures:

his fresh baked coffee

his destroyed denim pants

his cigarettes in the back pocket

his favourite sound of a hose

watering the concrete

while his lady

always stays in the kitchen

or on a single chair

in the middle of the balcony

overlooking her beloved kingdom

possibly wondering

why her hands

became so wrinkled

and make that wedding ring

look less of what it was

she is staying loyal

to her small pieces of fruit

the plastic bags from

the bakery next door

filled with vegetables

that smell like earth

and while slowly walking

with her right arm

always holding

her waist

with respect

she always asks

where her old man is