I’m done painting the photographs,

writing the lyrics to songs 

we will never together sing.

You’re done tearing up the letters,

so lost, so crazy, so mad, so sorry

for the things we’ve said and done.

Where am I now, I can’t find your smile but

turn around, for your smile is overdue,

bid farewell before my smile goes too.

I’m done scratching the walls and counting

the days that I’ve been locked in, relentlessly

still, this wretched door won’t open for me.

Place the barrel through my mouth, 

put a bullet in my brain

where it’s supposed to be.

Pour me a glass of wine, light me a cigar,

and remind me why we are alone

dining with iron and steel.

Remind me again why my eyes won’t open

when I spin the cylinder and pray

the loaded chamber re-latches itself on. 

Remind me again that life is meaningless,

that you and I deserve a little better,

and I will remind you to pull the trigger.

Your song is on the radio,

and the memorized lyrics play in your head

with every beat, every note

and every instrument, familiar to you

like it were part of your body,

part of your soul.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

The melodious tone that sings

you through the day (night)

while you dance (all alone) in your room

to every beat, every note,

every day (every night)

like it were your last.

I’ll forget you in days, in the minutes

that count the remaining year down

to seconds, and the screams shall then engulf

the night sky like you used to fill my mind.

I wish this portrait will crumble bit by bit,

into pieces that will never be recognized,

while the picture it inherits so blindly

finally fade, fade, fade.

Turn (green) will I at the sight of palms

in palms, trash I will claim him to be

for you do not know love, and yet

I do not know (you), I do not know

any more the Sunday afternoons

that I spent loving you

more than I (he) ever could.

So pour me one last glass of wine,

before your warmth departs,

or perhaps

your warmth has already left me forever.

Now you wonder why he does it,

how he does it, why he doesn’t stop

even when the lights are dropped,

because he loves it so much

he can’t stop so he continues

to do what he does,

and while he does it

he burns the little photographs on his desk

piece by piece, till the flames engulf entirely

his rigid emotionless soul,

a sober body, a drunk mind,

and he lights another for the next photograph.

If the planets will drift

towards each other, they will swim

so fast the stars stop shining in shock,

and the moons that revolve around them

gradually collide onto a course that takes

the populations that will eventually reside

in them by the eyes, and their thoughts

will turn the stars from where they stand,

millions of light-years away,

till people, things rather, collide, and collide,

and collide again, again, again,

collide, and we now are in another world,

another world? The other world?

Which other world?

What of our world?

What is our world?

This world does not exist.

Ce monde n’existe pas.

I don’t remember you,

for that’s what you always do,

you place men in the back of minds

and women through the end of time.

You don’t remember me,

but I’m willing to let things be,

for the world does not revolve around

the countless footsteps that you sound.

What of the countless nights at play?

What of the nights that shun the day?

What then will you recall of us?

What then to do, but turn to dust?

I’ll let the world boil underneath,

till then, maybe, you’ll beg in grief.

I hope you’re happy,

because the moments that you share

with him are far more precious

than those you shared with me, and the time

you have with him will far atone for

that you had with me.

Or did that even exist?

Because I cannot exactly recall how

the summer’s day was spent, or the winter

that marked the “so cold and alone” in life

did not seem to so sparingly forgive us

in the midst of the craze that we once had.

It’s called craziness, is it?

The feeling you get when you don’t know

what time of the night it is you’re still awake

thinking about how the morning will pass

without you knowing because you’ll be up

only when the sun begins to set

and the night begins again?

But perhaps then craziness cannot exist

when you are missing someone

that does not exist

in your life

any more?

Can you smile to the one whom you’ve spoken

to each night you’re half asleep,

and yet rid yourself of that aching

inside you, burning you till your screams

echo and ring in the ears of all who pass by

in bittersweet silence?

Can you remember if you are truly happy?

Won’t you write with me?

For you die with poetry,

you live your life in prose,

you steal the lines off the stage

of Aristotle’s very own theatre,

you dive under the pages of an unread book,

and play the part of a silent diner

in an empty restaurant, where all the flavour

left on the table was never served

but only taken

by lips that ironically never part in rhyme.

You’ll paint the ground in blue,

stain the skies in pink,

you’ll leave rivers in a tint of yellow

but you won’t rid the black

at the back of your intricately entangled mind.

So won’t you write with me?

Won’t you write the colours off your heart,

write the literature in pale ink,

write art into words you appreciate,

write in an existence I may comprehend,

write with me?

Your heart is racing,

the sun sets and you rest your hand in his,

your body’s shaking,

the horizon goes, but you can’t rest in peace.

It’s taking over you,

such electric vibes running in your veins,

it’s taking none of you

through the space and time that pains.

I won’t find it

anywhere, above Hell or beneath Heaven,

I wont mind it,

for the skies won’t breakeven.

Everywhere you go, my heart can’t follow.

Everywhere you go, I can’t be your shadow.

So the poems of life and death begin

to slowly revolve around

the songs of tragic love stories in

the little cruel spaces of harsh reality

that sends you sinking in an ocean so vast,

so open and so deep.

You smile in your own deserted corner

again, you write in your diary the poems

that keep you alive, the songs that keep

you awake in the dead of nights,

and the realities that knock you senseless

in the worst moments of day.

Don’t smile towards me, please, don’t

look this way nor peek in the corner

of your watchful eyes, for I am afraid

of what your menacing stares do

to the many poor fates that lie sleepless,

dead, after.