Serban Raducu Bogdan (7 march 1988)
No one speaks of love anymore,
we just try to get higher than others
to be closer to our god, (well, at least she does this)
and to our dreams and ambitions.
But I lean my head upon her chest,
and it feels like it's been ages
since I've been here, since I've touched her skin.
She shrugs, and moves my head aside
away from her heart.
'I can't breathe' she says.
I pretend to believe this lie,
but I do not budge myself, from where she pushes me.
She doesn't need to speak with kisses, like I do.
She used most of them, on others.
She's not old, but she acts old.
The floor cracks, her steps are heavy now,
not only in my mind, or on my heart.
She used to be frail and graceful,
like a flower.
She used to inspire me every night
to fight the sleep, off her eyes,
to kiss her, to sin with her,
and to write about it,
for a book she made of me.
On the wall in the right,
hangs a painting from when she was smiling,
and above her, the sun.
There is no cloud. No shadow on her face,
and even more, no drip of rain.
Her hair is made of rivers of gold,
and the rivers fall on her shoulders, on her back,
almost touching the autumn grass.
The view from on the top of her heart,
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?
It would be nice, to have again
a little part of her, in my palm.
I miss that. I miss...her.
Her love, the frailest flower in the world,
can bear, not even a single kiss now,
from my anxious lips.
The clock gets nervous in the left,
but never tired of bringing death, close to us.
Close to her arms, I feel old too.
I hear her dress, sweeping 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 my world is empty of souls.
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 this 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 the next room.
Even here, the air is suffocated with her scent.
I take a page, a pen, and write.
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, the failures of my struggle are piling up.
Nothing worth battling over.
I see her shape in the door, and then approaching.
She carefully treads on the discarded poems,
in her way towards me,
leans and whispers in my ear,
like the wind whispers to the flowers
'I am leaving you'.
Comments about this poem (Departing November by Serban Raducu Bogdan )
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