it’s strange, how quickly time erases faces of the people that were once dear to you.
how you try to remember them, but recover only one big mass of dough, a chaos of random body parts.
and there was a time when I spent days and days watching his expressions change. when I knew every dot in his eyes and we traveled through all the galaxies together. nothing is where it was anymore.
except one, not really significant detail - two tiny wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.
they only appeared when he smiled.

this is how I write, shriveled up in the corner, with the shadows dancing on my face.
whispering to the dusty typewriter that keeps jamming
and I choke on my own words along with it

he came from the moonlight. Blinded, for a second, I covered my eyes from crystal light that he bled from thousands of wounds in his trembling body. He bled on a tired land across the moon’s path, he bled on my hands when he fell to embrace the grass,
he bled
into my
soul.

he woke up only the next night, with wind and wails of his prey in the ears. He opened his black cruel eyes and his howl rocked the whole world.
only I (a lunatic) see his unwept desolation. It dissects air and my throat with diamond splinters, when I chant for the night along with his blood. In complete silence his silvery teeth clatter; light sensation fills my veins and it doesn’t hurt, when flowing coldness finally leaves me.
and all around us the stars (that he taught me to exhale) will pop
electric discharges, maybe fireworks in the air
I’m staying here, in the shadows of nacreous moon, to dream the dreams of werewolves.

he’s not the beast; I am.

~
Get up to the night, in a white form, black silk slips through my legs. Pale pillar of light, the ghost of thoughts, talk, talk to your twin, he’s behind the glass, he’s alive and he’s breathing, he’s pounding at nothingness with his small fists and he wants to get out. His speech is flowing, don’t make me seep through the uneven floor, to collapse into a puddle before the legs of a mirror, don’t turn me into a void as I was born from it.
~
And the wise-man scratched the back of his head with his blackened fingers, then slowly lifted the cup of tea near his lips. Only the truth comes out from them. At least promotional booklet says so. He himself still obscurely remembers how once, when he was young and foolish, he found a coin on his village’s dusty public road. He found a coin and he bought a most expensive big stick of chocolate for his pale cousin. The wise man saw who dropped the coin, but he didn’t try to bring it back to it’s owner, he didn’t say a thing. Because, he thought silently and guiltily, it was for a good purpose.
~
After me there will be only my teeth left. nacre. shining. their crown is transparent. When I was little, I used to steal beautiful and sparkling tiny stones from my grandpa, he called them jewels. I still have one, it reminds me of my teeth and I have to hide it, it reminds me of the things people don’t talk aloud.
~
His name was Staphylococcus aureus, they called him the Golden Staph. In my head it sounds like an uncommon pretty bird with feathers colored like sunset, but call him three times and he will come as a curse. He crawled near the bare feet, cuddled gently with it’s sweet destruction and soon it was over. they amputated the leg on Thursday.

I walk and the earth, still frozen and glacial, tumbles beneath my feet.
Warm cocoon of light surrounds me and where I put my foot, grass grows slowly:
through concrete, through stone and through dirt.
lend me your strength and I will wake the earth.

Mossy pavements in the mad sun raise their slender heads, climb like bindweed through the walls, windows and rainwater pipes. Streets burst with buds, ascend towards the sky, it’s the Emerald City, and it’s rising.
I see roots wriggling out of my feet, they dive deep into the earth, they riot wildly towards it’s center and our entities intertwine. I absorb underground springs and fragments of thoughts. My feet, from now on forever petrified, are encrusting with bark. As I lift my arms to the sun, my fingers stretch and unfold in thousands of branches.
I don’t need to breath anymore and I know:
the spring is here.

2011, March.