The sun just about peaks through
and smiles at me, warm gaze,
hardening in such a way
that I can almost hear the beeps,
curing light, setting the glue that keeps
my current self stuck to this chair.
Stuck like on the saddle of my bike
when I fly past on a brisk cricket night.
Or the resin that made me close my eyes,
sunken and sewed in your seat,
freezing senses, the smell of your hair,
the constant flow of air, fighting the heat.

I suppose I use glue, resin and rivets
to keep me where I want to be.
Like sitting in your car for six hours
or laying in bed with earbuds,
thinking about you and me,
while essentially,
I would like to run through fields with clawless paws
and I know the bugs will shudder their scissor jaws,
especially if I would sit with them or roll through
the tall grass near my house, glued to you.

But, as I sit in the sun, a thought starts to brew;
I’ll see you soon, in unknown places,
that I’ll later reflect on and write.
So for now, I would like to linger longer
and stay stuck to your traces,
maybe for a few more hours before the glue unsticks
and you take flight.

Maybe I left myself to be chewed up,
crushed, by the ever-leaking pressure of whatever feels right.
The time, the You, the I,
nothing feels ripe.
For I don’t think enough, I think,
but then again I do.
I think too much and I believe the hype,
so quick and empty,
like boiling bubbles through and through.

It’s like a looping loop, if that makes sense.
I’m a happy soul but not around every group or every time,
maybe like five percent.
And some days, with some people,
life feels stiff like a board, and forced like a mime,
and sometimes, sometimes I think bad things,
and I believe them to be fine.
And some days I go and I get it, for I will die to win.
Yet on another day I will lazily wait for whatever the wind will bring.

But I love to love and I love to grow,
at least, with the people who are nice to me.
Those who don’t sting and know when to say no,
which some need more than most.
And sometimes I see them, or myself, up close,
with my eyes to observe but I act like I don’t.
Like a helicopter on reserve, circling over sea,
wasting fuel on nothing, just to crash
in the duality of me.

We sat on grayish wood,
floating on grayish water,
somehow muting millions
under a bell jar,
were we sat, legs touching,
sounds diluting,
as we were both clutching
to ideas reflected far
on surfaces, mirroring matt.

And I think I must be corrected,
because we sat
on grayish wood, but floated on blueish water,
and looking at the blurry picture took,
I think it was hotter,
and we just had a blanket to hold
each other, not because it was particularly cold.

Maybe only the icy hint when you spoke,
on a spring night, where a bright blue glint
waved when you cracked a joke, so very sweet,
which makes it one of the best memories,
one of those that wasn’t recorded to be concrete.
One that lives in a treasury, very rare to discuss.
So how can we blame the past you and me,
when we didn’t know that that moment
would mean the world to us.

A view from the village hill
somehow resonates religiously
with an aching heart,
with any cold pressed skeleton, run of the mill,
feverishly strong,
yet falling apart.
For you must be bone-shivering
or out of your mind
to look over the heavens
and not feel nearly defined,
by that before you, the I, who paved the way
for Christmas dinners
and serving coffee, with the streetlights on,
in a closing cafe,
where you hide from fuming factories,
that would find you weeping,
maybe a few times a year,
because a view from the village hill
would fill
your lungs with creeping fear,
tugging muscles in your withered cheeks,
barely noticed and slept on for the stacking weeks,
where village hills turn into dense mountains
with rounded peaks,
and it must be neat
to not see what these village hills
do to me.

Imagine striding
all of your unknown
along the beach,
far from anxiety,
breathing eerily,
fresh, salty air,
leeching on trembling speech.

Because it got into me,
the land of the free
and the black birds,
passing my spotless window,
while I play guitar, thoughtless,
not to be in limbo, but present,
counting inhales,
frequent like the deep, rumble rails
that put me to sleep
whenever I go to university,
and the way the sand crunches
under my running gear,
like the lightest grade of kisses
that you can barely hear,
those that stir your molecular misses
through your last remembered view.
Just to tell you
to watch the landscapes turn on the dial,
yet to understand what is causing this
and why it is taking a while.

Try to tell me or another
why we chose to live this way.
Eternally missing,
roaming around
like exotic animals
on different sides of the zoo,
in cages, forced to stay,
like the Crowned Crane
and the Bengal Tiger
tracing each others shadows to subdue
the crippling worry,
resonating between the fibers
of splitting bamboo.

Between dreams of a vaster plain,
between the unsettled and restrained,
like the jagged rock tied
to the claw of the pensive Crane
and the muffling muzzle around the Tiger’s jaw,
in countries where elephants cried
and the rhino’s horn got sawed,
again and again,
making the bigger picture profit from souls
circling their pen, behind poles,
holding a barbed fence,
making the intimate growth
between the Tiger and the Crane
come at the expense
of both.

Slug your legs up the stairs
and fling your feet out of bed,
you sorrowful individual,
quit feeling for yourself
and screw back
your heavy head
on your ever so brittle neck.

Heck, you could even be the next,
if you would just
give up and give in
to the idea of a thing
you truly care about,
where you would sit with kings
but be closer to the cotton-like cloud,
with outstretched wings,
soaring your within
along the patches of dry
from your former drought.

And I wonder why
I write in second person about myself,
why I act like furniture, yet never dust
a single shelf,
or why
I decide to rot a little more
in my comfy bed,
just to conclude
that I should open a window or door
and stop living like I’m dead.