this inner peace

december already, is it? no. not just yet. this heart's getting smaller and smaller, you can carry it around in a pocket. each second that passes by, I count it. it's youth passing me by and not asking how I feel. do you need me to wait for you? but youth's running and running and the little heart's looking me into the eyes begging for the mind to let it be broken. if it bleeds, you can feel. is it so? who said that? I believe oscar wilde was one of them people who shared this opinion. what do I say? now, I say nothing. I know nothing. my fear is somebody else's fear and I remain stone-still. I do not need guaranties, but hands who'd pull me away. there's this train coming. any hands.

wish I had a better memory. wish I could be present, wish I could live here and now. but I always search through some dusty drawers of my past. or I'm always dipping into the future. and now I'm late, so terribly, terribly late. I get tired so often now. my mornings are on the run, there is no time left. I have no time to look back, but I do. and then I have to go again.

wish I could smoke. wish I could smoke my mornings in a cold empty kitchen, wish I could read while smoking my mornings. wish I could have my coffee with anybody's cigarette smoke. the words are no longer said, they drop inside of me. I do not need words. what's the use of them? they always made things worse whilst hands and lips and eyes can say everything.

I no longer ask for anything. I don't know what I want. in fact, I know, but that seems so impossible that I prefer thinking about something else. I guess I wish I were weaker. almost invisible. .