the air disappeared a few days ago.
some people call it a heat wave. I call it hell
or, when I’m in intellectual mood, a sauna party
with clothes on. nice looking clothes
I turn my head when I hear your name.
the sky is dark and heavy even if a storm
isn’t in the forecast. how strange this silence is
without you. I’m looking ahead. on the wall
I gave up studying Icelandic.
there are fourteen vowels in their alphabet.
my mouth goes dry after a few words.
there is no place I could practice it.
being able to hold your hand. watching the sky
or news and never getting disappointed. ordering Chinese
food with one extra rice and celebrating another
ordinary day in October. being certain. writing you
freezing ground bristles with yellow needles,
looking like a huge, scared hedgehog. a narrow
path slowly floods in fog. we are wading in leaves,
parks, constellations. saturation of light is changing
with the first light crawling through the window
tiredness grounds my eyes with gravity
I defy the distance of ten steps.
kitchen. cup. coffee
living near the ocean. imagining foreign shores.
alone. with a big family. a husband and four children.
waking up every morning to giggles and to surprises
smelling like burnt toast.
we are finding each other again. time
is not favorable for us, writing across
journals, calendars, days. scribbles
on margins, make inessentials memorable.
in shoes too big and a shawl
thrown untidily across her shoulders,
with a strand of hair caressing her cheek,
her smile smudged with lipstick,
so, that is how it feels afterwards,
empty hands, empty eyes.
astonishing things land in a suitcase,
useless trinkets crushed by a knee,