PostFeminist magazineA room stuffed
with your presence.
The sound bouncing off
the strings,
and your voice

Broken in half,
suspended from desire
to reach the moment
that has been slipping
into someone else’s room
for years.

Now in the dark,
illuminated by the whiteness of the snow,
gleaming through the window,
shadows are fighting,
concurring, surrendering,
contouring a new world map
on the wall,
a new land and new waters.

Your fist full of hair,
your skin screaming for touch.
I see you in fragments;
I feel you in bites.
Blue dolphins swimming
in your pupils,
playing games with waves in silence.
Two white, soft kittens,
swinging in your belly button,
one counting the days,
the other counting them back,
always starting from zero.

A taste of every single second
of my life so far,
cramped into this one,
condensed, repeated.
All my lovers coming back
in your mouth
in your wet palms,
in your earlobes.

Every lover’s breath – one bone
in your bare foot,
stepping thought the desert,
blowing the sand like a storm.

Have I ever existed?

There is no reality.
bodiless, pulsing being
in another dimension.
Hold my hand.
Don’t let go!

I am losing myself.