Room of Dreams

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I fell in love and missed you. So I started to write you poems.

They appeared in my notebook, on the back cover of empty space,

on shopping lists, bus tickets, newspaper margins.

 

In my  poems, the birds sang and butterflies flew in the sunlight.

Dust powdered memory. Coffee smelled of roses in the porcelaine. 

 

Leaves turned yellow and fell to the ground. Flowers died.

- seasons changed.

Some of the poems were lost forever, others destroyed. Most lack the end.

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Sometimes I find poems in my pockets, but they are written in a foreign language.

in some ancient dialect that no one anymore gets.

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In winter, snow fell on the land. Nature was white paper.

The poems in my pockets were freezing cold.

They flew away to warm places.

 

My fingers were in ink. Tip of my pen broke.

I dreamt the room and wrote haiku with my hair.

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