A Nameless Sorrow / Irregularly Exiting
I am waiting with you the moment when we rise. The only precise thing. The mixture, blurred oblivion, letting it come, with the little civilization surrounding us, with the scarce lights yet catching up with us, the awful yesterday, the people waiting, despising us. Leaving them speechless, far behind us, scary with their petty exemplarity, all neat with their knots, at work.
Your acid drop mouth, happy as you are, when I lay you down beside me. Thinking that time will settle, will find a place for you, a way for you to love.
What I miss most among what I miss most is that I cannot help you. Keep telling that I would come on Sunday, on Monday. Warming up the back of your neck again and again, wrap it with my forearm, so moved by the shadows on your big nail fastened eyes.
The man I carry around, the one I throw away, the man I am, his sorrow this very morning, the sorrow of a bold old child, the man you take along with you, the face you leave me with, the white imprint of you, the nameless sorrow you thrust between my lungs. Without any laughter when we look at each other.
At the blackest stoke of this measure. I envy those able to shout.
Goddammit, figure something out. Or let us make a miracle.
And I should follow you like a light swirl.
Translated by Maria Hanea Raluca