Lucretia Borgia's jewel

How often do we have impression that someone’s stolen our dreams?

How often do we overestimate the toughness of our cuirass?

How often do we ask hoping for totally other answer?

How often do we stick pins under our nails? And another one and new one, each harder and thicker.

How often can we regret that we aren’t more despotic, that we didn’t insist more, that, instead,  we chose to be warm, sensitive and tutelar?

How often do we believe against our hope?

How often do we smile with tense muscle inside our chest?

How often do we feel gravel sliding off from our fingers clasped on the edge?

How often do we spread our madness on everyday toast and eat away newer and newer illusions?

How often do we rely on fortuity and we run blindly ahead along rail to nowhere?Will it come or not from the opposite a rushing freight train with a new load of  other people’s hearts?

Do we already hear its wheels’ patter approaching from the curve?

How often do we clench out teeth moving forward in blizzard, in darkness, frostbiting the fingertips of our desires?

How often do we regret like Joel Barrish that we can’t go to the clinic where they would erase from our grey cells the gloss of her hair, the smile of her warmth, the memory of her touch, the smell of her skin…?

The question is: do women like Clementine Kruczynski exist?

Even if the thickening reality dims if front of our eyes, even if we hear straight from HER lips that there is someone else, that it is not our voice that SHE is awaiting for…..that even then, we want to remember against hunches, facts and opinions.That we want to wait and wait for her, envying that guy her feelings…..envying him more than air in a sinking dinghy…..more than 1^st communion bike …more than solitary retiree envies the  neighbors’ Christmas dinner hubbub.

That we will dream every day, every moment, every breath ….that it will be us, SHE calls in while caught in the net of passion and desire…….

That we will dream  she surrenders and follows her hankering, forgets him while giving up to the pleasure, that she won’t be able to stop it ….that she will not want to stop it……

I like to go out into the garden in the morning in days like today. The sun shines but it’s not hot. I like to call it crispy. It would just need a bit less sunshine and a bit more wind to be really cold…hmm no, not cold, rather chilly.

Sometimes furs, words, gestures, woolen socks and mulled wine are not enough to warm us up. The Chill  with his long icy fingers strokes the brinks of the soul leaving traits of white frost flowers. It’s not cold, for sure it’s not freeze. It’s the temperature of methaphisical climate temporarily goes down.Chill is silence…..awaiting….

for touch unmeant not complete

for smile of the lips and eyes

for sound of mobile deep in the pocket

for May-honey words

for quiver of sms surprising our mobile

for flowers picked up straight from the flower-bed

for early-vegetable spring

for hope against her herself

for enthusiasm and engagement

for cramps of longing at 3 am

for stars above your hear at night

for porch with wicker armchair and raspberry tea in stoneware mug

for ladybug on your morning negligee

for green clover carpet under your bear feet

for dream with colorful fragrances among pine trees

for bulrush rustling on the lake

Chill is conscious that on the other side of the milky window pane they are all there. All the wantings hibernated in impossibility. Hands reached out to fit the ice tile when you try to melt it with your thirty-four….four. To discover on the other side that SOMETHING we shouldn’t even think to hanker. Longings and wantings squeezed in the freezer between Grycan’s ice creams and ice cubes for fruit drinks. Let them stay there.