even when you pilot
you disregard the storm clouds ahead,
like if my navigation was enough
for our circumnavigation to work out properly,

and even when you pilot
we keep all of our maps fold,
like our compasses out of sight,
is it because no manmade object has an ability
to mess with that powerful force called ‘love’?
and isn’t it strange we don’t care
everyone’s saying we don’t deserve what we’re getting,
even though we both know they are absolutely right?
we live our lives like dreams,
adventure video games,
we’re born dreamers wearing fancy sunglasses
which allow us to perceive the world in a different filter
than anyone else,
we spend our days cruising aimlessly,
leaving clutter behind and writing stories,
living metaphorically in a world of ataraxia,

even when you pilot,
we disregard the vicious reality,
how?
we invented our own and painted it yellow and blue,
we ditched the universal way of thinking
and now we fly like sparrows made of steel,
we merrily punch nimbi,
catch cyclones into jars,
live metaphorical lives,
watching the obstacles that made the others surrender
abate on the ground,

we live our lives like dreams,
born dreamers,
born artists,
in a world of absolute distortion and dual existence,
in which toxic water and crystal clear water meet
but never blend into each other,
and only we know about this,
because only we have access to our minds and our rose gardens,
we travel above lavender fields,
oceans both raging and calm,
we do nothing in particular,
just writing an epic story,
it’s an ooze - a beautiful ooze,

though it was never our job to care about tomorrow or the past,
and now it’s finally the clearest it can get,
so set another sail,
let’s circumnavigate,
though it’s a brand new day.

you go in and out of my head like it’s a coffee shop,
day or night,
warm or cold.

you gifted me red roses,
but they withered to black,
i wasn’t a proper water source
to keep them alive.

summertime,
in our yard,
cherries reddening in the big sun,
the skies have reached the peak of blueness,
bluer than last year,
when we were lying under sycamore trees
with our minds wandering around at cloud level,
blasting our favourite music and singing along to it,
that i called life,
that i call the future.

sometimes i wonder:
what if you didn’t
take my happiness away,
but made me realise
that i never had it,
you taught me how to
actually fight for it,
when you broke my heart
and soul into pieces,
...
and here i am,
happy without you.

a clear, rapid stream
runs across a vast grassland
into the blackness.

ivy climbing up
the wall of an old town house,
no rush, no pressure.