A cold in the hand, low blood-pressure
It is just a night, fragilemost
Opulent handshake with the hour
Hoping for a ceasefire
Between the wind and the time
Rain pouring elsewhere
An umbrella within the chest
Sheltering turbulent words
They run through the wrinkle lines
A coffin for two, in the mornings of life
No more coffee, he is asking for love
Not for another crutch in the sand
Faithful summers of the past
He might fly to San Francisco next time
With no other luggage than your eyes
In an amber box full of padnotes
Of paradox, an assortment of postcards too
You haven´t missed a train alone
The abandonment runs deeper
Deeper than papercuts over skin
Oceans of dead lullaby
Winters and falls
A yesteryear!
A bloodtorrent of letters
Plaster without walls
Misunderstandings, conversations, pain in your chest
Embedded solidly, soundless, presences
Another traveler yet
Will find your letters, the knowledge of the hair
He might be a better storyteller
His pockets of grain, the skin less decent
Suitable for loss, gain of porcelain
Rustier than your shoulders of grass
Without headaches from jetlags
It is not your fault, wanderer
You have never been precise
You never sleep at night
But you can write!
The travel log of the city sleeper
That will live out of your luggage
And bleed out his heart
Helpless you are
That chest is not thine
You are out of time
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