8th of December

Two glasses on the table
a stool at the corner
the shadow of a hand cutting flowers
shadow divided between bed and ceiling
I don’t remember, didn’t see it on time
only the shadow of the closed window
on the white wall
and the hand that didn’t cut flowers
the hand that was cut at the first moon-second
falling in the muddy waters middle of the road
next to the broken wheel of the post office truck.
A mandolin, an angry angel
a glass of water, the cigarette
the sound which takes both of us out of loneliness
so we separate again without saying goodnight.
Then, the eyes that open two holes in the wall.
I planted a tree. I’ll make sure it grows.
I won’t come back, no matter what.

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