*departing November (1.01) Poem by A Waltz For Zizi

No one understands why I return here
in this place with only one muse.
I don't get it either, completely.

I place my head on her chest,
and it feels like it's been ages
since I've been here, touching her skin.

She shrugs, and moves my head aside
away from her heart.
'I can't breathe' she says.
I pretend to believe her, but I do not move,
from where she pushes me.

She doesn't need kisses, like I need them.
She used most of them, on others
while I was still pushing
love letters, under my muses doors.

The floor cracks. Her steps are heavy,
not only in my mind, or in my heart.

She's not old, she just acts that way.
She used to remember me of a flower
who's name I cannot remember.
She used to inspire me every night
fight off sleep from her eyes,
kiss, sin and write, in the same bed.

On the wall to the right,
hangs a painting from when she was smiling,
and above her, the sun.
There is no cloud, no shadow on her face,
no drip of rain.
Her hair is made of rivers of gold,
and the rivers fall on her shoulders, down her back,
almost touching an autumn grass.
The view from there, from on the top of her heart,
is amazing.
What if, I enter it,
and put my head on her lap,
and listen to the voice of the wind and the flowers?
What if I grasp her hand in there, once more?
It would be nice, to have more than a shadow
in my palm.
I miss that. I miss her.

On the left, the clock gets nervous
but never tired of bringing death, close to us.
Close to her arms, I feel old too.

I hear her dress sweep the floor.
I open my eyes, but she moves fast.
She is not there.
I think of her as I think of a ghost.
I can never rely on her
to be there, when I need her.

I smell coffee. I lift myself
slowly, like the giant Gulliver,
but there is no one here
smaller, or more insignificant than me.
I see her on the chair closest to the window.
She adores the color blue.
When she was little, she used to tell people,
that she painted the sky that way.

I lay my lips on her neck,
but she doesn't want me,
to be that close to her heart.
She puts on, more layers of clothes.

I go into another room.
Even here, the air is silent and scented.
I take a page, a pen, and write what I can.
I am not a real poet.
In my poems, I rebuild the tower of Babel
so I could get in reach of her lips.
I miss her lips.

On the floor, failures are piling up.
It reminds me, of the primordial sea.
It frightens me. I don't have a billion years
for this poem. It might be already late.

I see her shape in the door, and then approaching.
She carefully treads on poems,
in her way towards me,
leans and whispers in my ear,
like the wind whispers to the flowers
'I am leaving you'.