„i believe i am sad”
i told him, pouring my rose wine in my
everything but fancy glass.
he lit up his cigarette,
puffing some of the smoke in the air.
my body ached when his lips moved.
i could feel a tremble in my chest.
and my stomach.
i could have said
<because of you>
i should, actually.
instead, i just smiled
with my left part
„not in <slitting my veins> kind of sad
but in the <i just want to stop living for a while> sad.”
he came closer, and touched my shoulder.
„because i lost myself somewhere.
between books and music and Bukowski’s poetry.
i have no passion, no desire to live,
to go on.
i just …i just need to stop this.”
and i did a grand gesture with my hand, including him
in the movement.
„i have to stop whatever i am feeling”.
he arched his brow.
„and what are you feeling?”
it was such a plain question,
it was something my therapist would ask,
after i emptied his box of kleenex,
but not because i would have cried;
but because i had to do something with my hands.
something that consumes me.
i am devoured by a being higher than me.
i don’t know what.
i would say i am numb, but that would be a lie.”
„are you feeling something related to me?
he stopped smoking.
he started touching his beard
in a compulsive manner.
i took a good gulp
of that rose wine.
„or maybe not.”
„it’s irrelevant, really”
(photo: Zhu Jinshi)