laying awake in my bed this morning
my eyes still shut
i imagined i was listening to rain pelting on my window
turned out to be the hum of the air-conditioner
but it still felt like a rainy morning
as a consequence of a stormy night
when i sat next to my window
writing poetry in loose sheets
and then leaving them there
hoping the wind would burke them
like an ex-flame
which it did
but the relucent raindrops did kiss them
washing away the words
and yet i glowed at the relics
remains of night poetry in smudged ink,
on wet, delicate sheets, sticking to each other
of course it didn't really happen
just felt like ityou do feel like it did
when you're reading Wislawa Szymborska between breaks in exams.
discovered her in the most queer of places last year.
at work in office.
It doesn't matter what i was thinking of last night
"How to live - someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted to
ask the same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones."