*I just have to do things like this, every once in a while. When does poetry lays down and politics take a back seat. Where is the limit of science, philosophy, Essence, cogito, signifiance and the equator? The moon is her and I try not to smoke. When I give in, I know I am alone. (a disclaimer, a bat swinging and hitting something other than the aim, a surprising bat emerging out to the wilderness)
First, no one shall touch you, and inflict you harm, and redefine nightmares that troubles you with no end at night.
My lungs will sing songs for you, how they are maimed by cigarette sticks in your absence, how they resonate with the will to live and see you again avoiding the sun with your eyes while your arms bathe under it. And then I will listen to that giggle of yours, in the lifeless spaces except yours. They won’t be fake ones, because we will learn to master the pursuit of genuineness – cry when we want to, when we have to, blind to the others’ gaze, spirited to just spill ourselves and dilute all the restraints staying deep us. You will be giggling because life is beautiful – what with all the colors of fog welcoming the night; the inks of pen reminding us we can write our biography, our history, our failures and successes; the dregs on the bottom of the coffe mugs telling us we can already have a refill; rainbows speaking about change; our hands speaking about our agencies, our potential for activity.
I will sing Slide Away to you, as we get into the brink of falling asleep, as the soles of our feet estimate the roughness of the ground, as we find ways, figuring out what to do amidst the collision of imperatives and desires, chasing the sun in the coldness of July and rains sputtering on the roof and waking our senses. We won’t need to fret about the weather. I stare at your palms and navigate the plains of softness and security and I know I will be sane and fine. I wish you would just blush or ask me What the hell Ivan?! And I could cinch, and speak for our nearness. As you pass through the stones and the dusts of the concrete, I would ask if I could turn you into “us” – walking side by side in the pavement while people gaze, eat their popcorns, throw surmises, mind our business we often silently keep to ourselves, unnamed, limited to interpretation. If someone accuses you of libel, we would not retract, but keep affirming, standing on our grounds. We have not only truth and good intentions and the assurance of being in the right; we have “us” and all the others behind us. If someone makes you think you should be dropping a crucial subject. I would strive to learn logarithms and derivatives as fast as possible and talk about them with you while we find space for ourselves in every waning sunlight.
Tonight, I don’t need Jessie Day and her white teeth in New Girl. I want you, talking to me like all the trust has ran out except for what lies between us, you, studying the shape of the veins in my palms like a scholar inspects artifacts buried for centuries under the dark pits of soil. Again, the tragedy is that these are only words. No more songs and cuteness and romanticism now, I will breathe the hours away until I sense you again, living with the stretches of the moments, near me; I will hear your dances again, smell the wrinkles in your face, look at your whimpers, taste your 7pm resignation, touch the once untouchable arteries beneath your dress. We will find better ways, and make better days. And we will get rid of poems, you will have me, and I will have your indecisiveness and fear of names, telling me to stay; that is yours and I will stay.