The shadows of the spokes of clocks moving across your body

by Christos Polydorou

img_20160929_143218.jpgDifferent rooms,
different worlds,
do you still
dream of me? What
am I to you now,
so many years later? Don’t
cry for me, my love,
I am fine. The portrait
of you in my mind
is fading and it is fading,
but it is ok, it’s ok,
because when I close
my eyes, you still catch
me. I dream about you
coming in through the
window, crawling into my
bed, but it is not a dream
of desire, it is a desire to
wake up, and find you here,
but you are not here,
of course not, the room is empty
and the windows are open
and throwing the curtains across
the floor. Does it matter if it has
been days, or weeks, or months,
or years, or centuries, since you
lose someone after you lost someone?
The loss is always fresh.
The loss is always new.
I never turned away from you.
Time did not widen some rhetorical distance.
It pains me that I cannot see you.
Even though you appear in my mirror
in flashes, when the lightbulbs burn out,
or I think I see your shadow,
when I light a cigarette. The world
is lit, the world is dark,
I wake up,
alone.
The world is passionate,
the world is lukewarm,
I wake up,
alone.
The world is thunder,
the world is bone,
I wake up,
alone.

img_20160706_150956.jpg

 

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