Hello you,

I know you see me dressed in hubris, but I’m still trying to

understand it now. You didn’t plan to disappear, but neither did I.
Look at where we are now, that place you left me, those sticky fields
on which my lips start to crack. Why do I write this letter? I guess I
just want you to answer a question. One single question. Yes, you. I
vaguely remember the touch of your face on my thighs, but I can
barely feel them anymore. I am sinking deeper in the heaviness that
is known to me. The fatigue makes me grab onto the walls like they
were as small as grains of sand. I take one, I hold it to the light
between my fingers, and can see the ocean, in its reflection.

Honey, I can even hear you there. There is this piece of tied and
knotted meat in the space where the water becomes waves. Every
time a wave sucks on it, throws it back on shore, your last words
echo through my mind and I…
I step back from the grain of sand, back into the living room. The
playing of the knots blends in with the rhythm of my heart, which I
never felt, but now pounds heavily with an urge that reaches the
glands. I want to lay down and sleep, so badly, but the ground of the
living room is covered with a thick layer of grease. I decide to sit
awkwardly on my chair - I want to keep writing, but my gaze
towards the floor allows it to grab me. I sink in the grease, mingle
with the meaningless filth. Stubborn with old foot-soles, cigarette
butts from the street, slow memories of birds that climbed
unwillingly up through my chest.
I, wait, I forgot, I wanted to write you this poem, I wrote it that
night, that night that you left. Let me just:
how do you think I can sleep now
while you, after every play I opened,
lie sighing
in another woman’s
fruit, it's the same round that you blindfoldedly redo












no, it's not going well,
and yes you can fuck yourself
but luckily
I stroked your eyes
already wilfully from mine and when I write,
it all seems painless with a broken pen
but it is sharp, just as heavy as the stone you softened in my
abdomen, mass that proves again that men don’t have
respect for the dark they havn’t been
The page feels empty now. I push with all my strength against the
dripping desire to pour myself again. I know this is like poison,
honey, but suddenly I seem to understand. I look up, search for my
reflection in the window. My reflection looks like a little girl, she
swells red from my silence. I see her walking in chaotic circles,
hiding shyly behind every corner whereas I, also shy, continue to
search for her.
You know what, I found her. I thought the concrete would be
cracking, but her rage was cold as stone. When I finally got her out of
time, she explodes. Her hands are left on the glass and wrestle,
fidgeting and trembling, searching for themselves, until they have
scraped every strip of skin from one another. That taste of sinking
contrasts. Do you know that feeling? I notice it from time to time,
and I believe it makes my teeth slimy. Those too will eventually
relinquish boundaries. Because, at the end, the skeleton rebuilds
itself from from the bones up. Frequencies rise, get thicker, fall, and
that which is left in me just wanted to persuade you to ruin my
freedom. And yours, if you’re up for it. I thought that at the bottom
of that lake, filled with grabbing fingers, it wouldn’t be too bad to
sink in with you.
So, after all that, I guess this is my question:
Were you afraid of falling, with me? Were you afraid of love?