past midnight, diary, on miracles

my life is just my life.
i have a stale taste in my mouth
on words and feelings of love.
that had been different,
each word carried meaning and presence,
dreams, magic and future.
i have a very bad scent in my nose on the split
between body and soul, it has
infected me, it is like an ulcer now, not healing,
and a dressing will not be enough.

you feel different, i know,
and i feel like a lemon, all emotions squeezed out,
a peel, without sense and without an energy you could use.

when one cannot talk, one must be silent,

love is nothing to talk on.
i am nothing to talk on.
i move. you move.
different directions.

you loved my absence.
you loved me because of my absence.
you kept loving me through your absence,

in your absence i could not breathe,
and i have not been there.
your absence has been a wound
and a vacuum.

will you have to stay now in your absence,
in your sadness,
in your own holiness
and me in mine?

in prison and in prison,
and as we could not breathe
in our presence
maybe we can fly out of the cages.

all holiness, paradise and healing
have always been right here,
on the road.

maybe you should look for another.
and let me go free.
oblivion could be our spring...
when no miracle happens.
i am not expecting miracles,
i carry our ghosts.

each line and each silence
have shown me day for day
distance and walls behind,
closures, rejections,
concepts, judgements,
opinions, a lack of response,
the death of synchronicity,

and each step and opening
has been a stillbirth,
ending in conflict and reaction,
only created opportunity for staying
in the patterns of past,
walking backwards
and out and inside alone.

you created with me a dead volcano,
i am colder day for day,
i freeze,
i have longed so much for you to open
your heart for me, to welcome me,
to be a home with me,

no flower is in the garden,
when i‘d say flower
you‘d say nothing,
maybe out of fear
there could be a flower
and it would die
the moment of being called

so it is only my flowers,
yours are yours.
please when you cannot come fly away,
bring cherries when i die.
but you‘ll be late,
i know.