The clock said his head was in his fifties.
The doc said his body was in his thirties.
But his heart? Oh, when he saw her, it was a teenager’s again.
Remembering reality
Air settles heavy around us
and gravity wears us down.
My shoulders bend, my chest caves, my legs lose their feeling.
And then, for a moment, a breath’s time,
the flame is glimpsed in the distance.
Always
‘Always’, she whispered to him, ‘always’.
The last word he wanted to hear, and the last word he did.
Splinters of you
When you left, you left splinters of you in my heart.
And you left your things.
The terracotta pot from our first days in the sun sits on the low table you brought to our home. It casts a long shadow in this pale evening light.
Your linen shirt hangs alone on the rail, spice splashes on the snowy cuffs.
I keep your keys in my pocket.
I know you did not want to go. I know.
I envy the place where you have gone.
I sat the sky on the naughty step
I sat the sky on the naughty step
and asked it why it was crying.
But it just sat there shivering and dripping
on the carpet.
Then with a start it took its head out from among its clouds:
“I’m cold”, it said.
So I thought about the story of the sky and the rain
and anthropomorphising it a little more
but it was cold and I could not see the point
or the wallpaper through the mist.
His reply, when I asked him who would take precedence, me or his family, was brutally clear
I do not share blood with you.
We share only words and metal.
Blood is the victor.
Neon sizzle
The neon sizzle from the bar last night is still behind D’s eyes. She has not slept enough; she smiles as she remembers why. The bells through the open window tell her it is Sunday, ten o’clock. She turns over and there is T again. His mouth tastes of coffee.
The writer at night
JJ wondered what the integrating narrative, the golden thread, of his existence could be. What was his theme? He was not even sure what genre his life would turn out to be. Then he saw M’s face and knew his remaining chapters would be character driven.
Why is a crush called a crush?
Because that is what it feels like.
Inside my chest your fingers hold me tight.
Your smile touches my private heart
which flips and fades and shivers on itself.
And then you are out of the room.
Our meetings were sessions
Our meetings were sessions
of smiling gazes
that only pulled away from each other
to look at the time
and so strong was the yearning between us
that we often took the luxury
of not kissing
Michele Mari
From: Cento poesie d’amore a Ladyhawke, Einaudi, 2007
(my translation)
simonsalento 