so i'm giving every part of you away

How does it feel?

The rain is pouring outside, raindrops pelting down towards the road and the houses with viciousness. The air is damp and hot from the asphalt cooling off after a long summer day. The shades are drawn to keep the light out, but they can't stop the sound of wind and rain from filling the silence indoors.

The house is clean and tidy, objects neatly set in their place, silent and unmoving. She hovers among them, almost immaterial in her presence, brushing a finger absent-mindedly on their tops, muttering short sentences to herself. Her hair is cut short and uneven, sticking flatly to her head in some places and bursting out at odd angles in others. Her skin is ghostly pale from having been deprived of proper light for a very long time, and her eyes are hidden under a tightly knotted bandana placed just over them, making it impossible for her to see. At first, she looks like a middle-aged woman playing a blindfolded hide and seek game in the house, but the assuredness with which she steps and moves among the furniture and about the room goes against such an idea. It looks as if she has been depriving herself of the ability to see for a very long time, learning in the meantime to do without it, like a blind person would, sharpening her senses continuously.

She moves away from the room and down a long corridor, leading to another part of the house. She goes into the kitchen and feels for the coffee machine on the counter, before taking the pot out and maneuvering it towards the sink, from where she picks up a clean cup. She pours a cup of coffee shakily over the sink, trying her best not to spill, then leaves the pot next to the sink on the counter, making a mental note not to forget about it later on. She goes and sits by the window, cup in her hand, and periodically takes small sips of coffee. Long ago, drinking it with no sugar would have been unbearable, and a concept she could never grasp. But as the years went by, to save time feeling about for a spoon and some sugar, she left her sweetening habit behind.

After a while, her legs get tired from standing and she moves towards a chair, sitting down gratefully, her coffee almost finished. The blindfold prevents her eyes from giving her face and expression, and she seems more like an unfinished statue than anything else, confined to this house as a sort of punishment for not having the courage to face the facts. A few minutes later, she stands up, and makes her way towards the corridor, turning right halfway through and stepping into the bedroom.

The room, compared to the others, is a mess. Clothes lay scattered on the floor in small heaps all around the double bed. The wardrobe doors are wide open, and she stops for a few minutes in front of those, facing the vacant shelves coated with a thick layer of dust. She then stretches out on the bed, letting out a heavy, tired sigh, spreading her arms out like wings and moving them upwards and downwards as if making a snow angel. She remembers the way this room looks from memory, but her memory doesn't differ in many aspects from what it looks like now. The same mess, the same emptiness of the two-person wardrobe, the same leftover feeling, the same forgotten sentiment. She turns on one side and feels the side of the bed that seems less used.

How does it feel?

It feels like you've been left behind at home when your parents left for the holiday. Everything is exactly as if they were there, or returning shortly. But they are not there, nor are they on their way back. I've divided my time between this room and the kitchen and the living room, I've wasted hours lying in this bed or circling the living room or watching out windows and worlds I'm blinded to. I'm consumed between this moment and the next, and the ones after that are forlorn and scattered. I keep the house as it was then, and I imagine it everyday how it was then, so no detail goes to waste. I remember the better days this house has seen, and I with it. I remember his shape on the bed, spooning with me, before the times when anyone or anything could enthusiast him more than I could. The nights spent arguing and the hushed apologies whispered in the dark afterwards, searching for the peace and quiet of before. The weekends out camping under starlight skies, with distant owl hoots as company. The snuggling in the sleeping bag to keep each other warm and safe, the stifled laughter in the stiffening quiet of the forest, the long nights spent next to bonfires telling stories and jokes and promising forevers. How does it feel, then, having to give up your lifetime's best memories, your encyclopedia of happiness once the strongest link in the chain that triggered all emotions and feelings suddenly decides to break free of you? It feels like waking up stranded, all on your own, somewhere remote and lonely where no one will ever help you find your way again. And you don't just feel emptiness, you see it all around you. And if you can't stop yourself from feeling, from remembering, you have to stop yourself from seeing. You have to keep your senses busy with something else. And if he's not here for me to look at, what else is worth the light of day in my eyes anymore? I gave up my eyesight two days after he left. There was nothing to look at, nothing that didn't remind me of him, nothing that didn't tie him to me, nothing that didn't hurt. So, how does it feel? How does it feel not to see anymore? How does it feel to only feel, and even so to feel what no one else should have to feel, ever? It doesn't matter what it feels like. He is not here and, somehow, neither am I. He cannot see, and neither can I. So if I can still feel so much, can he?

"eu ti-am upgradat sarutul, ti-am iubit necunoscutul"

Ce usor, si totodata greu, ar fi ca toti oamenii sa fie oglinzile celor din jur. M-as uita la tine, si m-as vedea pe mine, si nu as stii niciodata cum sunt eu, pentru tine. N-as incerca sa ma vad prin ochii tai, sa vad si eu ce vezi tu, pentru ca nici tu, la randul tau, uitandu-te la mine, nu ai vedea altceva decat reflexia ta. Cum ar fi, sa nu aflii ce cred ceilalti, sa nu fii nevoit sa speri sa ajungi la fel de bun ca celalalt "tu", ca acea persoana care in mod bizar esti in totalitate tu, dar cu care nu semeni in nici un fel, pentru ca esti un "tu" al celuilalt? Sa nu trebuiasca sa te schimbi niciodata, pentru ca nimeni nu te vede, iar tu te vezi tot timpul la fel.

Am putea trai asa? Am putea trai fara sa stim niciodata nimic altceva despre noi decat ceea ce credem deja? Cine am fi atunci, pentru cei ce conteaza pentru noi? Cum am stii cine conteaza, daca nu am putea niciodata sa-i vedem? Cum as afla tot ceea ce stiu despre tine, tot ceea ce iubesc la tine, toate acele parti din tine care sunt doar ale mele? Cum as putea sa te iubesc, daca uitandu-ma la tine, m-as vedea pe mine?

Si poate totusi atunci ar fi mai putina ipocrizie. Poate daca nu ne va mai cunoaste nimeni, vom putea sa fim in totalitate noi; fara sa ne prefacem, fara sa fie nevoie sa fim pe placul nimanui. Si totusi, cum ne-am prezenta celorlalti? Cine am fii in ochii nostri, cum am putea sa transpunem imaginea asta in ochii cuiva care nu a vazut niciodata nimic altceva decat cum este el? Oare am mai avea aceleasi pareri despre noi insine daca am stii ca nimeni altcineva nu ne-ar putea vedea? Sau am fi tentati sa inventam o noua persoana, sa ne prefacem ca noi suntem acea persoana, pentru ca nimeni nu ar putea sa ne contrazica vreodata?

Am putea sa fim oglinzi? Oare noi, ca oameni, nu traim prea mult din reflexiile celorlati asupra noastra, nu avem prea multa nevoie sa ni se spuna cine suntem? Nu avem noi, totusi, o dorinta netarmuita sa cunoastem mai departe decat propria persoana? Am avea noi atata incredere incat sa ne consolam cu ceea ce ne spun ceilalti ca sunt? N-am vrea sa vedem? Nu ne-am simti, intr-o oarecare masura, limitati, inchisi intr-o lume in care nimic altceva nu mai exista, in care nici macar pareri in afara persoanei noastre nu putem avea?

Am fi, poate, noi cu totul. Noi fara parerea nimanui altcuiva. Dar atunci, cine exact am fi noi?

"because there in the sand of our shore, lies your fear"

The walls are the emptiest shade of grey, worn out by years of neglect, pinned against the canopy of her imagination by her enduring stares. The cracks and chips in the paint remind her of arteries and blood vessels, veins crisscrossing, as if part of a pounding human heart. The light plays softly on the uneven surface, highlighting certain features and irregularities, blending the sun into the dusty colour.

The window is wide open, letting in the summer air, filtered through the moldy curtains. The noise coming from outside fills the room, making it seem alive despite there being no sense of inhabitance. There is a slight breeze that moves the curtains, letting off the smell of age and solitude.

She stands by the window, motionless, surrounded by the invisible walls that growing old and lonely build around you. Her face is drawn, her skin taut against her bones, making her seem thinner than she really is. Thin lines creep at the edges of her eyes, a dark shade of coffee bean brown, and at the edges of her small mouth. Her hair is piled up in a tight bun, with just a strand or two of hair falling loosely on the sides of her face. Her skin is a pale white, with rosy hued cheeks and a wax-like quality to it. Her clothes clearly belong to the opposite sex-- a white, short-sleeved man's shirt, baggy and frayed around the collar and the hem, stained with either coffee or tea on the front, and dirty around the cuffs from having been worn too much; black men's trousers, far too large around the waist, barely held in place by a belt, rolled up several times to brush the ankles; grey socks, patched in a number of places, yet still with holes in them, exposing the heel and several fingers on both legs.

All over her arms and hands is written, over and over again, a date: 22nd of May. The same date appears around the house, embedded in different items: in the windowsill, next to a spot where the paint is burnt, the product of endless cigarette stubs having been put out; in the wooden table; it appears written on the front page of every single book, on scraps of paper all over the house, on bubble gum wrappers under the table and tissues scattered on the floor. It seems as if all the items in the house are linked to this common theme: time.

Yet the oddest thing yet is set neatly on all the walls, giving the place an eerie sense of having gotten lost in the flow of minutes, hours, days, months, years. Every bit of available space on the wall opposite the window is occupied by clocks of all shapes and sizes and colours, none of which works. They're all frozen at different moments in time, giving no real clue as to what the time is, in truth. She doesn't seem to be bothered by this; occasionally, she turns her head towards them, as if checking what time it is, then moves her gaze onto the door, as if she's expecting someone to walk right in any moment now. Her gaze is fixed, but lacking in dimension: heavily wrapped in her own perceptions, it seems that to her time is measured in the passing of cars on the street outside.

She looks all of a sudden ageless and aged at the same time; her skin places her somewhere in her late thirties, maybe early forties, while her eyes and her glossy expressionless features make her seem a creature set at the boundaries of time and space, capable of feeling their dimension but incapable of being affected by them. Her sadness seems to stand out, like a faithful shadow by her side, pushing her beyond the reality she seems to be part of.

Suddenly there's a soft noise, like a rustling of feathers as a bird settles to sleep, or like a faint heartbeat of a broken heart, bruised by loss. The smell of sickliness and dust covers the room like a warm blanket, probably the only clue as to how many years have really passed. Her gaze is fixed on the door, the sound humming gently in the background, like a far-off tune in a dream. And all of a sudden her face lights up into a beautiful smile, youthful and full of expectation, of wishes granted. Slowly, he walks towards her, arms outstretched to gather her into a warm embrace. His hair is coffee bean brown, just like her eyes, his skin is the colour of caramelized sugar, his arms are protective and secure as they take her frail form and rock it against his chest, his eyes are the pale green shade of late May.

They stand like that, locked together, his return worth every seemingly wasted second, as the clocks start their tick-tock noise in unison, the hands turning anti-clockwise, trying to find the lost thread where they left off, before having stopped.

the truth is, we ran out of time...

I thought I'd wake up to a beautiful sunrise. I thought I'd take the world and spin it on my finger and shape it the shape of you and I. But my sunrise was actually an eclipse. The world was far too heavy for me to lift, let alone spin or mould it into anything other than what it is.

So tell me now, after I have made you dream, how am I meant to make you forget all those hopes? How do I make it okay to erase every wish, every glimmer? I feel like I can't let you think them any longer, not even in the eventuality that I will one day be able to make your dreams come true again. We are so alone, so apart, so torn by contradictory yearnings that only measure the distance between us, while doing nothing to shorten it.

I have said this countless times, and it has somehow still not become familiar. Waiting is the only way in which I find it impossible to pass the time; it feels incomplete, like I am jumping seconds or lengthening minutes, trying to find the reason for why I am. You know you are my reason, but when you are not there, it isn't likely that I find a suitable way to find you close to me in my surroundings.

Yet you always let me wait. You said you'd tell me what you decided to do. You never bothered to text that decision, call and tell me what it was, leave an offline message, any of the countless things you could have done to tell me not to wait. I think you don't really fully understand the amount I worry when I can't know what you're doing and when I don't want to call because some part of me that will always be too proud to admit this in front of you, thinks that you're probably busy with stuff that is none of my business, since you failed to inform me what it was. And then, with a little pang of something curious, stuck between jealousy and the feeling of being betrayed, I realise I probably make no difference, that I probably have no right to know what you're doing or when you are because, no matter how much love or affection exists between us, it is still your life, and not ours.

And I know you will tell me it's not like that. But it is. We are as intertwined as seasons are, as the cycles of nature are, as the phases of the moon are, but we are also as different as summer is from winter, as different as withered flowers are from blooming buds, as different as a crescent moon is from a full one. Try as it may, the moon will never catch the sun in its race up in the sky. Consequently, maybe, try as I might, I will never be enough, deep down, for either of us. I will always want to be more than I am to you, while what you want will be concealed behind your attempts at convincing both of us that I am what you want. And maybe, somehow, I am. But then I am not what you need.

I hope it is fun, and just because this time I simply can't bring myself to pick up the phone and text and see what happened, I hope, over and over again, I hope until every bone in my body secretly covets this, that you are ok and taking care and having fun. But mostly that you are okay. Because, in almost just as secret way, I'm worried sick that something happened and I might have lost the best thing in my life.

Please be okay. That's the last thing I'll ever ask, I promise.

acum cunosc in parte, dar atunci voi cunoaste pe deplin...

stiu ca timpul e ireversibil. facand parte din noi, nu ne lasa pe noi sa facem parte din el. e atat de efemer, si totusi atat de omniprezent, o prezenta tacuta, dar semnificativa, greoaie. neputinta noastra de a-i schimba cursul ne transforma in complicii lui, constienti de propria noastra complicitate, dar incapabili sa schimbam in orice fel raporturile dintre noi insine si timp. in aceasta alianta bizara, noi suntem cei manipulati de propriul destin, prea amplu, in prea stricta legatura cu timpul pentru a putea fi, la randul sau, schimbat. nu stim niciodata cand brusc aceasta forta se va intoarce de partea noastra, ne va surade sau face un semn spre a stii incotro ne indreptam.

tot ceea ce cunoastem este iluzoriu, atemporal. daca stiu cum esti tu in momentul asta, imi este imposibil sa prezic cum vei fi in momentul imediat urmator, sau cum ai fost cu multe momente in urma. daca ma gandesc la tine, distanta face trecerea timpului sa para irealizabila, cand defapt trecerea timpului cunoaste mai multe despre tine decat cunosc eu. numai aceasta calatorie incapatanata si repetitiva a acelor de ceas stie cu cate clipe ti-a imbatranit viata, pe langa cate ganduri a trecut, cate soapte a auzit. stie schimbarile din vocea ta sau miscarea ritmata a degetelor tale cand se joaca impasibil pe masa. stie sa-ti asculte tacerile mai bine, stie ce inseamna fiecare oftat, iti stie privirile secrete pe care, poate, distanta ma va impiedica sa le stiu si eu, vreodata. mersul sacadat al minutelor, orelor, asemenea unui rau care serpuieste printre dealuri si prin munti, acest mers calm, niciodata in intarziere, ne cunoaste destinele, ne innoada sansele, ne desparte si ne apropie ca pe doua scoici care se izbesc una de alta si ricoseaza in sipotele valurilor la mare, regasindu-se un moment in licarirea apei si pierzandu-se apoi la fel de neasteptat in malul asteparii fara sfarsit.

asa ca ne retragem in imaginatie, in amintiri, singurele noastre tertipuri impotriva timpului, singurele lucruri la care putem reveni oricand, la care putem apela pentru compasiune, si regretele unui timp care nu stie decat sa mearga inainte ne cuprind, ne sparg intr-o mie de bucati care spera sa se intalneasca, printre atomi si molecule, inca o data, si inca o data, pana la sfarsitul vremii. in propriile noastre minti putem fi impreuna, existenta timpului o notiune pur abstracta, de care existentele noastre pur imaginative nu atarna nici un pic. dimensiunile se rastoarna in amintirile noastre, si ni se pare pentru un moment, cel mai scurt pe care il putem fura din cand in cand, ca niciodata n-am fost despartiti. dar realitatea este un subordonat fidel timpului, care asculta cu desavarsire de dorintele acestuia, prefacand visul in scrum, aducand imaginatia pe firul actiunilor ce nu se vor petrece niciodata ca in inchipuirile noastre.

in fine, ne inchidem in palate de fildes numite sperante, zavorate cu incapatanare, ascunse de vreme in globuri de cristal. dar si aici timpul isi gaseste puterea, lasandu-ne sa intrezarim toate celelalte momente de speranta, ce asteapta aliniate ca un pluton ironic de executie, fiecare dorinta inceputul si sfarsitul urmatoarei. parca si lacrimile par o jertfa, apa in care timpul sa-si depuna victoriile, una cate una, caci, el, fata de noi, are suficient...timp. pentru el calatoria nu se sfarseste niciodata, caci el este niciodata. in fata lui nu suntem decat inca doua pete de culoare intr-un tablou prea vast si prea abstract pentru a mai conta. nimic nu indupleca timpul, nu-l convinge sa incetineasca, nu-l convinge ca unii oameni vor sa traiasca si ultima secunda. el nu promite nimanui nimic, nu lasa pe nimeni sa guste o data in viata una din secundele ce vor fi. apropie si desparte cu aceiasi usuratate.

asa ca ne vedem, pentru a nu stiu cata oara, prinsi de acest timp, care nu doboara constructii, nu desparte mari sau oceane, nu schimba cursul istoriei, ci doar pe acela al prezentului. in fata lui armele noastre cad, rapuse ca de o boala inexplicabila, iar noi, sortiti esecului perpetuu, nesfarsit, ne departam de noi insine si ne regasim in celalalt. e singurul lucru pe care timpul nu-l poate schimba, diminua, modifica in orice fel. e singurul lucru care ne-a ramas, singurul lucru pe care il aveam de la bun inceput, singurul care poate face fata. si, tacuti, singuri, ne iubim unul pe celalalt, in afara amintirilor, regretelor, iluziilor, sperantelor. e iubire pura, in stadiul ei cel mai inalt, imposibil de inteles, mai ales de catre timp, care nu sta niciodata in loc sa simta, nu se opreste pentru sentimente, pentru a le gusta, pentru a le duce mai departe. dar iubirea sfideaza timpul, supravietuindu-i in fiecare era, epoca, mileniu, secol, iar in fata acestor batalii noi cadem prada singurei noastre alinari:

timpul e unul.

noi suntem doi.

"remember that in fairy tales it's always the children that have the adventures, while the mothers stay at home and worry"

like I worry. i worry about what this minute, this very moment slipping through my weary grasp of time could bring, the changes it could produce right in front of me or far away from me, but still within my sphere of interest. i cannot help thinking, with a certain sense of wonder, what he is doing while I am trapped in my cage with my butterfly wings pinned onto the wall like a specimen on exhibit, what he is thinking as I write this, where exactly in this strange universe of ours he is, unbeknown to me, hidden almost in the folds of time and space.

as if it were a recurring theme in a poet's work, this distance occupies my mind whenever we are pulled apart by forces we are neither able to control, nor prevent. time, that is ever so short when I am with him, as if it were crammed by our presence in a miniature box, dilutes itself and stretches between the both of us like glass. beyond it I can see hundreds of tipped hour-glasses and the sand in each of them falls slowly, tantalizing, seemingly stubbornly wanting to crawl back up the half of the hour-glass they came from.

i feel myself trapped in this sick game of time, thrown around from the notion that time is stable to the notion that it can warp and change its dimension, its length. i try to chase the wait and the distance away-- i try to close my mind away from the silent ticking of my watch and the dreadful confines of my house, I try to escape to alternate universes that do not coincide with this one, that are of my making entirely. i read books and immerse myself in the story of this character and that, trying not to weave the situations around my own experiences, trying not to fit myself in the book plot line lest I'd bring my worries with me.

i have always wondered, with a hint of jealousy for never having accomplished this, how it would be to not worry, to simply live your life outside your emotions and not just through them. would it be better if I enjoyed the time I spend with him and then just put him somewhere deep inside of me and carry on as if he were there, as if nothing were missing, just because he is in my heart and my mind? i've tried to, but it could never last. i tried to just pretend that once we said our goodbyes he was still there, always present, like a fleeting shadow. however my imagination could not create that illusion. i was left with a heavy weight on my chest, crushed under the dullness of my actions without him there to give them a purpose, a meaning. his pace did not fall in rhythm with mine, his breath did not echo shallowly, longingly in my ear, his voice did not whisper "I love you" back as a continuation of a thought I hadn't even the time to express, his hair did not fall beautifully around his face and arched neck, his incredible green eyes did not hold that steady, warm gaze that could sum up the world and the feelings better than anything I've ever experienced.

however, when loneliness and darkness become my friends and I let myself be engulfed by the terrible, looming wait, I find myself thinking, in a small voice coming as if from my conscience: what are you waiting for? i immediately think: him. but it is not as simple and clean as that. i wait for him, yes. i would wait for him all my life. if we were at some point in time pulled apart, I have asked of him to live his life, be happy, even if I will be jealous of the one to make him happy, I will wait for him, wherever he may go I will wait for him, I will hold on to this life enough to see that other one or him go, before I let go. because I want to be there, I want to be the one to hear his last words, I want to hold his hand whenever he needs the support, I need to know that we are going to withstand the challenges of time. lately I have seen life like an endless string of disappointments, in which hope is the biggest disappointment of all. but then I figured that one can have everything one wants if one knows what to ask for. would I be warping the time-space continuum so much if I asked for him?

i have lived this word fully, in all its gloom and depth. yet it still frightens me. it frightens me to think of either of us whithering away in a stubborn wait for the times we may lose as unexpectedly as they came to us. i hate thinking of him waiting, because I know that it is the most heartbreaking of all tasks in this world. waiting offers nothing, promises nothing, and might as well give nothing back. i have always liked to think, ever since the two of us got closer, that I have unknowingly waited for him all my life-- that everything that happened to both of us brought us in that moment in which we fused. as we lived our lives up to that point, we never knew where they would lead. but I like to fathom that we have both waited for that decisive moment, we have walked towards it without knowing it as our destination, without daring to hope for it as hope is almost always delayed disappointment, and this we could not possibly disappoint.

there are times when I wonder exactly how intense our emotions are to us, I wonder how better to express them so that their meaning is as pure as it is for me, the one who is feeling them. i sometimes wish I could transmute my own thoughts and feelings and adversities into him, and he his own into me. it would not be swapping roles-- but for a fraction of a second we could see ourselves as the other one sees us, we could realise what we are to that other person, and be swept off our feet by the intensity of what we are experiencing, the tingling sensation coursing through our brain and bursting like fireworks, bringing every brain cell to contribute in the glorious act of understanding, finally, fully, just like it is, what this feeling we so shallowly call love really implies. for just the smallest time, we could live in another body, in another mind, trying to understand how that other mind works, while our own impressions coincide with our own way of thinking things over.

there are many things that I desire possible, but they never come true. i dream of dark skies and silky stars and the moon a pearl, and a quiet beach with bleached sand and wet alike, with the calm calling of the sea as its waves splash against the shore in million drops of ice-clear water, with their salty foam enveloping us, breaking us, throwing us, so that in the same time we are pulled apart and brought together like two magnets facing opposite directions. i dream of semi-bohemian, semi-pretentious living style in the outskirts of an over-populated London or another city, maybe even less known, with a small apartment in a tall yet oppresed building, with an overview of the city, with a faux art studio in the living room and a double bed in a smaller chamber and a kitchen dirty from disastrous cooking and greasy pans and a make-shift bathroom, as left-over. we would cram our closest possessions into this apartment of sorts and live off semi-obscure galleries to which we would sell art and semi-unknown companies for which we would animate a series of things.

i am waiting, and time is unwrapping itself in front of me like the wrapper around a favourite chocolate candy, and I know that whatever is coming I am both waiting for and already living it, and I cannot change it, and it is coming, and after all has been spent and given and we have reached the end of our time, our time that is just a fragment of the on-going time, we ourselves will be going, because we are all going.

mai sper la inca o ora, un minut, o secunda. in fiecare clipa care se scurge stau scrise un milion de alte viitoruri, groaznic de multe sperante nesperate si vise nevisate si soapte nesoptite. in fiecare clipa care trece sta regretul a ceea ce ar fi putut fi. in fiecare clipa ce urmeaza sta incertitudinea a ceea ce ar putea fi. si in fiecare clipa ce o traim sta grandoarea a ceea ce este, mai presus de orice alt timp, de orice alta stare de fapt in care ne-am fi putut afla, in care ne-am putea afla, vreodata. si inchid ochii si simt cum prin mine trec nespuse clipele ce nu vor fi niciodata, fara tine.

o asteptare. o asteptare cu inceput si sfarsit neintrezarit. asteptarea vocii tale, a rasului tau, a privirii tale ce aduna lumea si o spulbera si o preface intr-o dragoste mare. asteptarea imbratisarii, a momentului oportun in care sa-ti demonstrez ca suntem toti la fel, si abia pot sa respir fara tine. a momentului in care toti vor privi de sus tot ce e intre noi, si vor rade, si noi vom rade cu ei, convinsi ca nici unii dintre ei nu au simtit ce simtim noi de fiecare data. de fiecare data, ca prima data.

raman cu tine in gand si dupa ce sunt singura. si in zgomotul din jur rasuna ce-ai spus tu, toate cuvintele pe care le pot aduna intr-o rasuflare insetata de fervoarea atribuita tie. raman singura, si simt singuratatea mai puternic ca atunci cand nu e nimeni la capatul telefonului. dar in singuratatea asta creste ceva, in loc sa se distruga. cresc sentimentele. creste nerabdarea de a te revedea. creste ritmul pasilor mei cand se indreapta catre tine, un ecou perfect pentru ritmul batailor inimii mele la vederea ta. creste neasemuita multumire catre tot ce e in jur ca s-au inteles sa ne aduca impreuna. crestem noi.

tot ce ne inconjoara se topeste, si as putea in clipele astea sa jur ca si daca ar exploda lumea, eu tot as exista in spatiul asta doar cu tine. as putea sa raman doar a ta, si am manca norii de vata de zahar, si cerul s-ar preface in mare, apa intinsa spre orizont ca si iubirea noastra. as adormii cu tine in gand si cu tine in brate si cu tine in suflet. m-as trezii cum am adormit. as visa la tine fara teama spulberarii visului, pentru ca sa ma trezesc ar insemna sa ma regasesc tot cu tine.

y

si totusi nu e nimic mai mult decat un vis. din care nu ma trezesc langa tine. din care nu vreau sa ma trezesc, pentru ca sunt singura si tu esti...

altundeva.

si deschide ochii si spune "te iubesc". Si nu aude nimeni.

si se trezeste si casca si nu e nimic mai frumos decat perna ravasita si patura aruncata la o parte.

si pleaca si in mers sta scrisa asteptarea care a luat sfarsit si in rasuflare nelinistea intalnirii.

si in aer e sarutul.

si in toata lumea asta nu mai e nimic decat el. de timpan s-a lipit vocea lui, de nari mirosul, de buze gustul, de piele atingerea.

si picioarele sunt in apa inghetata, si inima e picata in pantofii aruncati langa patura de pe plaja, intr-un soare opac, intr-o luna difuza, si valurile sterg anticipatiile si sarea se amesteca cu sperantele.

si sterg picaturile de pe pielea ta uda, si simt cum pe aceleasi urme de pe corpul tau se preling alte picaturi, si altele, mereu altele, minunate mereu.

si clipele se intind, ca elasticul, si miros a tine, si se pierd in noi ca degetele mele in parul tau, se pierd in jurul nostru ca vantul in nisip.

si nu se mai intoarce timpul. dar nici nu se pierde. se preface in amintire, intr-un alt acum, intr-o alta ipostaza a noastra, intr-un noi al trecutului, un noi al vremurilor prea devreme sa se duca si prea devreme sa ramana.

si numaram visele, si numaram ecourile, si traim pasiunile, si starea de iubire latenta se preschimba in ceva cu totul, exceptional mai grandios decat secunda care fuge spre infinitul uitarii, si suntem prada viziunii viitorului.

si suiera a furtuna, zgomot de mult apus, si suna a ploaie, rapait de stele si de cer albastru nemarginit, si ninge a ganduri straine noua.

si apa e materie, si spuma marii ne inghite, ne preface, ne rastoarna, vartej de utopii.

si ne amestecam cu neantul, si traim vidul, si ne inaltam in rotocoale de fum de tigara si parfum de alge moarte si calcam in scoici sparte cu sidef de praf de planete neexplorate si o strangere de mana in intuneric.

si adormim pe nisipul ud, cu fulgere ca felinare si tunete ca muzica, si un pescarus urias acopera astrele si le schimba licarirea in vapai, si de sub patura de apa verde-albastra rasare soarele palid.

si in mana mea e forma mainii tale, maini care n-au atipit asa, dar s-au aflat in intuneric, si rasare dintre raze intrebarea-- care dintre noi l-a nascocit pe celalalt?