Sometimes I walk miles and miles across the field
Just to check if
You are still breathing
I gently touch your back and think
Look, it’s winter!
We have the town all to ourselves
Your hair grows and grows over the frozen river
As you sleep
My hands collect golden tears
To bake the silent fresh bread
Of my last supper.
I did not know
How much you wrapped yourself around my heart
Until today when sitting in the park
I accidentally caught you eating bread.
You took each bite with your eyes closed
And gently stroked the crust
Like you would do on Sunday in church.
You did not smile but
I think it was the sun who smiled at you
For a brief moment.
I had been there in the cold for quite a while
But did not move or blink or even breathe
Just waited.
You packed the crumbs away and
Quickly vanished.
And then I sobbed.
The poet does not eat bread
And does not make noises
The slow heart beat is loud enough
To keep the poet awake
At night
He does not walk nor fly
He opens the windows to jump out
And wash his face in the town spring.
A bit like god, you whisper.
No, a bit like the cold breath of a dead friend, I say.
He will not ask how the weather
Might be in those far away lands
Just vanish out of sight
Once you got used to his uncomfortable presence.
