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We keep our separate silences,
Belgium outside
is in clouds,
trembles in spasms
of rain,
the skies leak through my fingers
glued to the cold French window,
the treetops stir wildly,
one of those mornings when I
stand for hours and imagine
you sitting on the edge of your bed,
of your world,
with fluffed-up hair and sad –
a little knife twists inside my thumb,
for seconds I am as still as a photograph,
the salt stings my lips,
all at once
an olive bird appears
to float in the marble sky,
the floor under my feet wobbles
and shifts upwards,
I open the window,
the vases with flowers fall down,
the rain enters the room,
the bird lands in –
we feel each other,
we keep our separate silences.


(Dear Frederi Lipczyński, thanks for the gorgeous painting and the mood!)