In the backseat

and I
I only think of him.
I sit dying and perishing in the backseat,
but nobody can see the heart pounding and I think, I promise, my ribs will be crushed any time
and can anyone see the microscopic goosebumps on my arms?

I look out at the road but time stops to exist and doesn't pass, I'm stuck in the memory of Statt's balcony and the boy in sunglasses and plaid visor down below that grinned when I said awkward things,
and the feeling of regret and delight stings me at the same time and I have to quietly pant for breath.

And the image of how he walked over the street by the crossing some time this spring, in a grey shirt and one hand in his pocket, head turned to the left as he took the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled and I already back then thought he was beautiful.
That portrait that only I have, the only one in the entire world, oh I wish I could depict it, copy it and print it, save it,
even though it's mine and no one else's
maybe I wouldn't share it if I could
no one else understands the artists' point.

I sit all quiet and whilst a war takes place inside me,
he didn't need to lift a finger, take one single step, take one single breath, say one single word,
but I sit with pulse in temples and heart up in arms, studying work of arts,
without. one. single. word.
Posted on July 10th, 2009 at 09:01pm


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