Each cigarette that has seen my fingerprints is a metaphor for the unspoken.
For I wanted so many times to fill the empty
To embed my novel on your soul
To touch the edges of your thoughts
Yet, let your spirit uncluttered.
Today I’m busy. Keeping the track of all the rushed hours.
Keeping the other people’s stories preserved as perfect little folded envelops.
Today I’m fine. Less ordinary, but fine.
Between stories and bed sheets.
Between me’s and we’s
Between comparing and adapting.
Still missing the colour of your scent
that has nothing to do with coffee, nor cigarettes
which is pretty strange because I used to like them both…
“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.”