Sketches of you

You are the sketch that I have been exploring continuously since I meet you.
Unexplored pastels, unexplored dimensions of black and white.

I've told you ever since I meet you. I love those edges of yours, those violent strokes, those unfinished lines.
I feel in love with the sketch of you, because if you were complete I couldn't add fractures of me.
The beautiful thing is that we don't need to blend in, we'll stay incomplete and we'll face the world together whatever that may be.

The autumn of your leaving is permanent.
You're always absent in this sketch and I am permanently looking everywhere for those abstract strokes of you.
Staring longly and hoping that I'll find you at the corner of the street.
With a limping heart and a narrow view that contains a bruised emotional connection.
Meeting on streets that we didn't plan, getting in debt for borrowing the sky's drawer of colours.

Cover your mind with polka dots and let's escape.
But you are just like me.
A sketch and you won't leave your paper to blend in on mine.
It's paper and strings and pins that separate us.

Until one day your sketch will melt like an ice cube being dragged around in the sun.
In your last moments of consciousness you will see how the sketch of me got so monochrome.
It missed you ...
I lost you in the artificial and selfishness of becoming a piece of architecture.

It's pieces of you I could not catch.
As pieces of me they didn't match.

Naive-The Ghoul and The Glass

Trying to understand.
Why so many time those soulless ghosts seem a lot more fitted to contain a fully functional heart.
It's similar to the relationship between an empath and a narcissist . Obviously the empath in his naivety will try to fix the narcissist, but all he will do is to become a sponge that will swallow all of the negativity and willing imperfections.

If you were a ghoul from the start I probably dropped my expectations on your canvas of wine, and confused you for divine instead of just fine.
It was nothingness you offered wanting to express more and offer less.
Your name didn't open up any gates, not even the ones of memory it was just a weak attempt at a temporary love.
A love ephemeral like a headless beast that feeds on hidden desires, on what is dark, on what is bleak, on the things that we said to each other when we did not speak.

Casually you left, like before, you left your wine on the table and my heart in a heart shaped glass right on the edge.
Oh how I wish it would have broke, on the last minute that we spoke.
But the glass broke somehow inside of me, inside of that unparalleled universe where you took me.
The glass broke inside my escape and inside our moment, shame but I don't want to recreate you.
Not even fragments of you.

And so she left. His doll of glass with eyes of wine as her compass.

Rataciri

Iubitului meu de niciodata,

Si daca tot ratacesc as vrea sa ratacesc cu tine.
Sa ne pierdem prin fiecare colt de nicaieri, sa ne trezim la fel de ametiti si la fel de indragostiti de iluzia asta. Sa te impiedici de fiecare treapta dar cumva sa stii ca singurul lucrul care va durea va fi faptul ca mi-ai dat drumul la mana.
Sa ma saruti pe tample de fiecare data cand simti nevoia sa ma protejezi.
Sa ma imbratisezi la capatul lumii de parca noi am fi creatorii inceputului.
Sa iti doresti ca norii sa acopere soarele indelung incat sa nu mai apara razele plecarii mele.
Sa iti iei ramas bun de la o iubire mica pastrata de oameni mari.
Sa iti fiu tie elan azi si pentru totdeauna.

The Bird

I lived only for you she said, once upon a time when the skies were building up to swallow the moon, as the lovers from the moon, the first lovers in the world, decided to destroy each other as their love was more than they can take.

We are in a war. A never ending war of You and I and Us. The art of war is forgetting that there is a love as deep that can cover the whole skies in rhythms of melancholy and blues.
Let's dance he says, then he steps on her foot and she cries. He apologises for his clumsiness grabs her hand and asks her to marry him. Only spiritually as he will take her to a a place covered where they can read poetry from another world through binoculars and sip on the most renowned wines straight from Dyonysus's orchards.
She cries even more as his image fades away. It was just her imagination.  He was the potential of a man and she was the potential of a lover. Of a bird straight out of an old magazine that wanted for someone to simply swipe the dust of her feathers.

The bird grew old and nobody dared to open the book. Nobody wanted to see a dusty bird that would chant about poetry while saying that she forgot how to dance.
Until one day...The owner of a rabbit thought he should start a magazine collection. So he looked at this one magazine covered in dust, broken and torn on the edges but as bright as ever. The book would stay on his shelf and as the sun shined it's colours shined even brighter. He was looking at the bird every day and the bird was somehow changing.
He got inspired, he even did a magazine gallery that everyone attended to.
One day he made a collage with birds and there She was. Euphoria he called her.

Featherless or not, it's simple, take the dust off whatever dreams you have and chase them. Whatever shadows will follow they will surely be scared of how bright your life path will become.

Boxes and magazine pages don't mean containment ---
--- They are simply birds that will inspire you once you release the dream, they will also be free in your imagination.