As I drain myself, with finite grace/in the hourglass of time and space


Heavy, heavy eyelids. Dust on the inside. Don’t, don’t clean it away, wait  for  the drowsy wind of acceptance. Dance, dance, they won’t stare. The rostrum is big, the show is  dazzling, your dress is not golden and silky, they won’t stare.

One step, two, three,
brush away this memory.
Four steps, five, six,
give me the belief of a crucifix.
Seven steps, eight, nine,
don’t forget, they die and shine.
Ten steps, ten, ten,
the way to the very end.

Wire, barbed wire underneath your nails.    

When the skin is removed, the flesh shows off.
Don’t embrace the parentheses, they are defined by turbid variety.


Give me a face, I can’t stand the masks, they stick on my skin and then I can’t remove them anymore, is painful and confusing, they camouflage on  me.                                                                              

But this is a spectacle, dear, you need your mask, is your entrance  ticket, you will miss the performance if you don’t respect this polite  rule of keeping the distance.

Put the reality behind, show the fantasy they can relate too, those gloves of lace are perfect, they match the velvety curtains in color. And paint some redness in your cheeks, yes, is so suitable for a lively, laughable, and trivial chat. ‘What else can we do, is the way we learned from patterns, they were here, they must be applicable, right?”

Pretend, attend, they’ll be content. And the chances will rain and will reveal you the futility of this vanity that commands you, that makes you say defiantly,                                             

I’ll build the scaffold without buying their utensils, I will weave mine’.                                                  

Oh darling, you really have a healthy sense of humor, I’ve almost dropped my comb in the sink. Stop, stop, my eyeliner will smudge the perfect yet perfectible gaze of the mask I crochet for you. It’s not waterproof, you know. Next life maybe I will bring in the mottled umbrella of my milkshake for you. Or maybe not, because that helps me to improve the look of the ordinary white straw, and hides, with the fluids’ help, the empty transparency of my glass.  Anyway, you should stop. Oh, dear, why?, why?,  I am not sorry, but you must stop. Don’t illustrate this picture without spots, shadowed by the rust of their surrounding frames, damped by the lines of their obtrusive felinity, you are part of this masquerade of miseries, dramas, and dark thoughts as well. 


Why, why this obsession with integrity? Don’t you know you are all  faulty, there is no perfection to point in or out, no unassailable step in the paths of all of you?                      

Oh, you are so wrong, so damn wrong. There is perfection, yes, inside delusions. Inside my mind, it is indeed. And I always carry it around, you know, unlike them. They are always just passing by on my road, animate shadows to falsely comfort me with the idea of belonging. But my mind never leaves me, no, never as long as I live. (Hopefully).


Oh, summer, summer.                                                                                                                  

Je t’aime, je t’aime, iubire.                                                                                                            

With all the foul fluidity that you, still, form on my body, with all the stings and swellings of the skin bitten by insatiable insects, with all the aching burns that create this improper mosaic of nuances on my face. Because your protracted, limpid, and tepid days are the only ones that make me feel like forever is not just a devised word.  

Dear, I don’t cease my trip, I never do. Still, you are right, the summer makes me sluggish, it warms me up, and I am suddenly full of tenderness and acceptance towards you all.

Dear, darling? Oh, suspend this, do pause it for a while, don’t call me what you don’t mean or what you have ever felt before. I can bear you, I am lenient about you, but I have never relished the indulgence of sweet words. Because it makes you feel so uncomfortably affectionate. The weaknesses disappear first, in unfortunate circumstances…

But I do mean it dear, I endear you, as I did it before you (and as I will do it after you), through so many seasons and characters, through everythings and nothings, I am the one you all deem in the flickering light of your birthday tapers.


Don’t go yet, I can still talk about ideals, paraphernalia, and edibles. Yes, I can simulate this role, no need of camera, of public. I assemble all this for entertainment only. Because your askew smile does affect me as a cup of tea on a rainy day. For now, just for now.                                                                

Stay here, don’t go away emotion. Give me your shiver, let me hear you applauding my play, in the bottom of my stomach; let me sense you shaking your shoulders in a burst of laugh, on the dry skin of my soles. Do you have any idea how much I long for feeling? For staring into a pair of eyes that reflects intelligence, peculiarity, and provocation? All encircled with a thin rim of insecurity?                                     

Oh, this is just so believable, so comestible, I want to have it on a non-stop basis for a whole season. Will you feel with me every flavor of changing days and nights, every tint of clothes mixed on me in unedited layers, only you in my nerves for minutes, only you in my oscillating scenarios for hours, only you in every corner of my unfinished letters?                                                                              

Black on white is imperturbably such an irresistible contrast, isn’t it so?                        

Still, sometimes white reflects black and black reflects white.                                              

And the similarities can sink each other. Two rivers that unite lose their individuality in the flow of something more grandiose. Yet, when the individuality is no longer recognizable, the casement cracks and the image from underneath the glass is exposed to weathers. And they are continually destructive, perennially marking, they never forget or forgive.                                                                                                                             


Count the sunrays that rest their temples on the wooden, white furniture. On the shelter on which a tidy row of dusty, old, hardcover books awaits patiently. The paper becomes cream, yellow or brown. In Time. The fragility of the pages increases, as the number of lines and folds in your skin, and white hairs on your head do.

One step closer always means one step farther. How can you say which one, the closeness or the distancing, really fulfills you?     

Go to sleep for a while, go, too much questioning deepens the circles formed under your eyes. Their color is a dark purple dotted with fawn stripes. Stay tranquil for a bit, I won’t, but I promise to trick you that I do it.

As I drain myself, with finite grace,                                                                            

in the endless hourglass of life and space.

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