we drench ourselves in the rain of conversations -
another conversation comes to an end, creating a sense of
loss
the way the end of a good book does -
every sense of self, time and the world around is lost
i wring myself and hang me on the line to dry
moments slowly pass and the world returns slowly -
things begin to make sense, reality spreads all around
a droplet of blue ink on blotting paper, drenched in rain
with a bunch of feathers that the birds that flew away left behind
i sweep the floor carefully and gather
all our words that lay scattered all around
i put them inside a box and hide it safe in a dark corner
and try not to think about it till the time is right
for me to go back to it again
the stars twinkle in the night sky and shooting stars
fall
outside my window
there will be another day, later, a long time away from
now
another night like this, when the blue moon will rise -
then i'll stand by my window, clutching the box to my
chest
i'll look at the night sky and listen to familiar tunes
of the breeze
like the night of some other time - the night will feel
the same -
the same stars will twinkle and the same shooting stars
will fly
everything and everyone that had to go would have left
then i'll open the box full of words from old
conversations -
sitting on the floor, i'll let the blue glow of the moon
spread my shadow on the floor - on which i'll arrange the
words
one after another, one after another
recreating a conversation that once was -
creating again all alone a world that once was, with those words
and i think i'll smile to myself then -
but till such a night arrives, the box will stay hidden in
the dark
with all the words and the attempts to forget them
or the tries just not to remember them
till a night like this is back again
