My heart hammers so hard

***

when I imagine you walking the streets

we walked together,

I still don’t know how much the gift

of freedom and trust

can cost the giver –

incapable of doing anything except thinking of you,

I remain in the books

piled around me on the floor.

I stare abstractedly into the pages,

at the lives and loves of characters and cities

I will probably never visit

together with you.

Waiting with all my senses for a light sound of your message,

or your letter,

that would invite me to – let’ say –

‘Le Sacre du Printemps’,

the explosive force of spring:

we would soak in the pounding rhythms

of Igor Stravinsky,

sink in the violent Nejinsky’s moves,

we would go deep to the essential forces of Earth,

we ‘d swim in the convulsions of nature,

my heart would dance down the sollar plexus,

I’d grip your hand so tightly

as Dyagilev would do to Anna Pavlova

after the curtain would fall …