it is midnight at the bar
and you are back
with your sun washed hair and
beautiful dead flowers.
i promise i would have bought
if i was not poor.
i do not speak the language of
your smile, but i wonder
if you too are thinking how we know
a thousand ways to die
but hardly any when it comes to
then i pretend to whisper to your flowers and ask:
“how can you bring so many smiles with
your own demise?”
but of course they don’t reply,
for i am quite eloquent
in my conversations with silences.
and i know that you like the mountains
for the views it offers and
not for the
stories it brings.
and that is why I will
and so will you.
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