the hill is a mountain, this time.

crimea pass,the road to llanrwst.

as we drove, i thought, i would
be happy if i lived in such a place.

i do, and so i am.

i'm a lost soul,
ash for pieces,
stranded
with failures
that pray
in quiet memories,
to be remembered.

we got drunk on pálinka,
that tasted like cheap nail polish
as the day drifted into sleep,
watching mismatched friends
in their twenties
dancing in a garden,
barefoot, and dizzy,
writing silly poems
in each other's hoodies.

i kept thinking about that
horse we brought to life
the whole bus ride home.
wondering
if i really had been on the bus,
or taken a long walk.

i recognised our house,
but the way upstairs was tricky.
thinking it was mine,
i crashed into my housemate's door -
maybe not accidentally.
the more the blur fades,
the more it becomes clear,
i just thought he was cute.

so i folded myself into sleep
before the truth arrived
and made it all too real.

i told my friend,
it wasn’t like that.
we said — agreed —
this still wasn’t a date.

then you sat down
with a coffee,
making me forget
every careful phrase,
every non-confession
i’d whispered to my mind.

we wandered the city
until sundown,
as if we didn’t know
every corner of it.
and when the night
started to settle,
i offered you an out —
you had plans.
you just smiled,
waving them away.

neither of us knew
what we then began.

because i told my friend
it wasn’t like that.
but now i’m not sure
what i was trying to defend.

silence swings over waters as if...
it rehearses its unseen so...
to fill  in the depth of blanks
a stratified time inhabits the landscape
orphic dreams morph into your flesh
the wind collates its courage and rage
like someone who falls into a self
my words bite the shape of a scream
the hunger of love descends language into crumble
the beauty of lungs full of air is misleasing
when I am waiting for silence to miscarry its void