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Showing posts from August, 2015


His life is a blur. Foggy little tears hide the truth of the day, spent in a dark corner. Sitting cross legged. Dining with rats.
He is a writer with no paper. A poet of the dark filthy alleys where even the sun is too scared to shed some of it's supreme light.
But he writes the unsaid words on his wrinkled face and in his portruding veins.
He writes with syringes.
He fills his soul with juice that makes his eyes yellow.
They were bright eyes that lost their light to the dark alley, layered with dust through the many years spent in filth.
His life is a blur. He would tell us all about it if he could write or speak a common language.
He is a poet. He really is. But I don't speak his language.
I can only observe the fading light of his eyes and the rats that accompany him on his invisible table.
An ambulance can be heard nearby, but it's not for him.
Nobody will stop for a dying light in a filthy alley.

The good one.

His hugs smell like spring. Soapy and flowery. Like the bright cool days when the weather is just right, and you're out gardening, carefully walking through just washed sheets hanging to dry.
He's a piece of haven. A homely garden in springtime. His pale blue eyes remind me of a lake somewhere in the happy summers of my family holidays in Ohrid. They crinkle up in laughter everytime he smiles.
A young man in his twenties. Unharmed by life, he still possesses that childish, truthful, big smile that makes you fall a little bit in love with him, and spring.
And when he departs, the air feels heavy again, like oxygen is gone.
He's a cotton boy, soft and nice, and clean...