When words leave off, music begins.

submerged in your silence again i look for you in dark rooms, on chaotic train stations where so many pasts linger, just not ours. I seek your touch in other peoples palms and your shine in there empty stares. I look for your words  on drunken lips of lost poets, but they are not there.  you are not here, not even a bit, not even at all.

.

 sometimes reality is like a book left on the lawn in the middle of autumn. wind blows it up and tosses its pages back and forth, the pages we dare not read, afraid of what they may hide. drops fall from far above, soaking the black letters and in the end only remains a gray mixture of what once formed life. not the illusion of life, but life itself. but then, then it is too late.

 Drinking tea, pouring suger in it like a a desperate man who has found water in the Sahara. Wondering when everything else got so sour, that this white sand is sweetest thing in my life.

I want that one. - I said.

Typically- he answered - You always want what i can not give you.

Then you're not for me ( onda ti nisi za mene) - i was persistent

You, my dear, are not for yourself (ti, draga moja, nisi sama za sebe) - he said smiling while putting the star in the palm of my hand.

And the lights came on, i woke up. No star. No you.

I have found a new place for my dreams, fantasies and wandering. Lost my way and found a magic forrest. I am surrounded by elves, trols, magicians and witches.  I kow they are there, I feel their presence, even though I  still have not seen them. It is beautiful. My own Boo'Ya Moon. Its all there. In one place. Fields of my thoughts and imagination infront of me. I collect them, sort them, rearrange and pour them out again.

The sun shines on me and the words fall down on the green grass, leaving everything sparkly and glittery. As colorful crystals they roll down the slopes and fall into the river. The river that makes life. It is beautiful. This is my new place. A place for dreams, fantasies and wandering. I am staying.

Even though your point of view on this world is a few centimetres higher than mine, i now feel like you are looking down at me from somwhere above the clouds. How i used to hate it when you did that. And you crush me like a piece of paper, making me even smaller than i am. You can see through me, see all the red spots i get when i am mad, you can see them with those cold eyes of yours. Those eyes, were they always this unkind? I remember them being warm, i remember them being my source for strength, but now i think i might have been fooling myself. It seems to me like they can freeze anything they look at and i have seen them do that too many times. And this overwhelming feeling that i should say that i am sorry, but my toungue can not do it. Because it knows something i still do not believe: there is nothing to be sorry for.