Since you never loved me enough
to hold my hand,
or take me to sea
to some faraway port
to feed me with
your fingers
to
catch a starfish
for me
To walk down the street
with your hand
on my waist.
Or, to walk with me
down the road to the little church of St. Elijah,
on some Greek island,
or on land,
if you'd like it better that way.
And since we never
had
our beach;
or our table
in our favorite restaurant;
and since chroniclers
more often than not, lie;
not even vacation memories
or memories of winter holidays,
a herbarium with no flowers
or water lilies
And, since my freezing fingers
never warmed themselves up
inside of your pocket,
during our long walks
by the river;
and, since my jokes
weren't funny to you anymore
while everyone else laughed at them
And, since now,
all of the sudden,
after all this time,
all of the sudden,
after all this time
when nothing's even funny
anymore anyways
You, want to know
to whom have I dedicated
that sonnet from last year
and am I still
bewitched by Crnjanski
and if any of this
has anything to do
with you?
Even a little?
Because I can see that you care,
come on,
let's not play dumb.
Everything I ever did
was only because
you couldn't love me
then
when I yearned
that you'd walk with me
down the road to the church of St. Elijah
on some Greek island.
Or, on land
if you'd like it better that way.
So, just so you know:
Yes,
you were
with me
in every poem of mine!
In books,
in worries,
in cakes,
in watercolors,
and other colors!
In the wrinkles on my dresses,
in all the vicinities,
and all the distances!
In conversations,
in lakes
and seas!
In ups
and writer's
blocks,
my source of inspiration
and euphemisms!
I'd kill you
and kiss you,
and bring you back
to life again,
just so I can meet you
at the end
of some story.
Or,
when the little stanzas called for it,
yes,
I put all of the
periods,
commas
and apostrophes!
As you can see,
I have nothing to hide.
I really don't have
nothing to cry about.
Because,
I am a pilgrim,
and love is my Jerusalem.
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