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

them all,

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,

and I



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

die alone,

and so will you.


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