There is danger in falling, and falling for anybody but oneself. There is danger in releasing and floating to the bottom of the well, where fallen skeletons lay, mine and his. These bones will ruin me.
The rhythm of silence seeps into my mouth and fills it with despair.
My death is a separate entity. Waiting in the shadows. Almost always upon me.
There are walls which fall upon our backs. And then there is the distance for which we shoulder these fallen bricks. To release the pain, to release the hunger and the anger. We carry them but we scream for it to stop. And nothing heals.
Between what happened and what almost happened, there is a space for truth. A space to overcome all fears. To become one.
מאין אתה? אתה יודע שאני רואה אותך בצל. בחושך. כל עוד עיניי עצומות אתה איתי. אתה יודע איך האהבה הזו מרגישה
I walked through the Kotel. Through the divide between men and women. And I recited a prayer I wrote about healing. I danced and touched the wall, and it was not so crowded.
A sun in fear of the shadows it casts. Unable to underline the exact point where its lightness transforms to dark on the faces of another. My faces and their creators with all their intentions.
In the rain, there are two truths: the falling and the fallen.
He tells me the wind which whips against his skin reminds him of his mother. And he tells me that his hands paint clouds and a sun-though he finds himself behind them, in the shadow of his creation. I see us each as an awakening. A beautiful heartache unearthed. It was there resting, for a very long time. He tells me: the rain woke it up.
I do not find anybody in the darkness. Your shadow dimmed then burnt itself to ashes. Or to shadows of its ashes. Before it danced in puddles and watched itself forgo vanity, I watched it watch itself and realized that skin does not always grow back. That there are cracks along our outer layers where souls will seep out.
In the warm, narrow eye of curiosity, one attempts to be tamed. To press oneself against the walls of the box. Pushing the bars of a cage as if they are true bars. A prison manufactured by its prisoner. Kept, silenced, and misunderstood.
What is there in the faces-etched in your smile?
I am asleep, walking.
I cannot help you in seeing: what was not already there.
Going away from here. So far the petals do not know me. So desperate, I pinch the stem, I tear the petal. I ripped the root.
Like people whose mirrors tinted blue do not reflect themselves.
Where water gallops against huge, fragile walls. And little cracks kill cities.
The use of exaggeration to undermine oneself, whatever this means to you.
Sticky soles. Peeling. Floors who ache to be walked upon. To never be left.
Orange smoke against a black veil of sky
Hold my hand
the delicate tune of wind chimes
Cold, smokey air
Our approaching the crackling, the ashes
Does poetry always dream? These little sons of prophets and angels-the owners who disappear. Their coming rattles the soul until it is half full. And worse, at night they flood as my mind succumbs to the beauty of verse.
You with your sapphire eyes. Or black. Or golden-the order matters. I call to you. You reach your hands back. I find my palm in yours. What is silence that is filled with noise? It is you. No, it is your eyes. Your silent, crazy eyes. And yet, I am shrouded in disappointment. To understand I am as interchangeable to you, as you are to me.
In the elegant face of abundance. Everything is lacking.
Cream papers pressed against sunlight to reveal words.
Little letters written backwards and upside down.
I imagine you sitting in a garden writing letters, placing flowers in the envelope.
Albeit the meaning forgets itself.
Nobody speaks your language
We become how hollow we speak. Floating with our heads downturned. I left behind a sanctuary, tumbling to now.
A shadow of my shadow in her box. Danger in the walls where I hide. Why I hide? To not find you. Somewhere by the water, throwing pieces of me away. Gone into a freezing body where I am put to exile another year-or whenever I decide to retrieve myself.