I’m writing you letters
from the depth of the night:
the smell of bagels and octanes,
the smell of memories and ice.
I’m writing to you
from the essence of the silence:
I’m slowly sneaking in,
I’m slowly gliding to the edge.
(it’s OK, my dear, everything is OK.)
I’m writing you letters
form the core of the silent
liver: drops of blood and remains
of tears – a whirlpool embracing me.
I’m writing to you as illiterate,
I’m writing to you silently and crunchily,
I’m writing to you dancing and yet bundled,
I’m writing to you so I don’t jump.
(it’s OK, my dream, sleep tight.)