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The man on a bike
with his son in front
between his weak arms:
just to make him feel safe,
to be guided
or to express him love?

With my skinny thoughts
on the bottom of my mind,
leaving empty chambers where
at least one idea could grow
out of its
presence.

On my cold hands,
repelling everything apart but
loneliness.

There is grace, and it would
tell me more than I might have
forgotten.

I’m coming home,
this is the only painful reason to define
nostalgia.

Today I’ve been an onlooker
in a country, where seatbelts is
a must.
Watching fading stars,
reaching up the sky
instead of falling down.
With a modest smile.

When I see this temporary light of spirit,
I can’t help myself but startle:
look how these places shine
just to enhance their belief in eternity,
which is selfish staying the last alive
and overwhelming the pain even.
Then death.

Nonetheless,
my place is nowhere else but here.
To stand still and smile the same,
but smile in another manner
that could wrap their pain and would wrap mine
in an everlasting light of infinity and
coldness.

I burst in tears when I saw the only place
where love could live:
it was her mother who let her feel
the light softness of her hands
making her special for who she was
rather for who she could ever be.

I burst in tears when this severe wind
squeezed the last dry moment out of me.

This didn’t need a poem,
this didn’t need an accidental glance after all,
but what the city was to be
with no outspoken words,
losing their main letters instantly
in this illusory world of nothingness,
however fullness?

I never felt so alive when I dissolved in the soul I once betrayed.
2013-01-22 00:19
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