Winged slits

the roads leading to my old home seem dirty and brown,
no deep colours
no flush of my memories

just dust blowing and smudging out my steps on the road
dried out and laid back
I missed passing by my house, on purpose
ten metres and I stopped.

I entered your home instead, i remembered the station name
I remembered the station before and the one afterwards, remember I used to always get confused when it came to exiting from the final gates
Gate no 1 or gate no 2
I still don’t know the number but I know the way, the position of the escalator with respect to the stairs; small things that make no difference
I even remembered the way to your home, the gate to the right,
the creaking black gate that I would stealthily enter through
next to the rose bush tree

I did not steal any glances this time
Your living room smelled of you
your mother smelled of you

you reeked of me
I undressed my shoes, stood up on your bed and traced my eyes over your books, your madness

sat with your mother and spoke about you as if  I would never meet you again
as if you were dead, long gone into the ruins of the past, the dead that will never rise upon, from graves or room or beds or books or hospitals or rehab or memories or milkshakes or walks at night
no, never get up from the grave

as friends and never as lovers
we agreed.

do you think if I looked for you, I would find you?
hidden behind the nettles, sharp bushes chained to the ground
letters etched on the soil, loam so sweet and fertile.

lips arched and then taken in.
pink and wet, red and parched for your entry into me.

open and close. tipped to the tongue


You will rise from the grave
your grave, but you shall never find me again


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