gay*
/pronounced gaaaay/*
noun

1. bandages through the body, old turtleneck sweaters, hidden love bites, vexed skin, a body meant for poetry, shivering, cold, like in the night, happy, but afraid, every time someone calls out your name.

2. Shivering again, happy, but afraid, again. *******, Rushed, Dim lights, pleasure without any sound, no moaning, mourning.

3. Lovers without name.

I like to dream of the day
I finally will be able to see you

But I feel like what we have now
is a dream
that I don't want to get out of;
a dream where I can continue
loving you without you knowing
I ever did

And what if we did meet one day in the future?
And what if you never saw me the way I saw you?
That is a reality i don't want to reach
―I'd rather be stuck in this dream alone,
no matter how lonely and one-sided this love is

the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
*his voice

some things are not meant to be returned
be it a library’s borrowed book
or hands that cannot hold ours and leave us cold

because we need those things
as reminders of the people
who once borrowed or took what belongs to us

and in our story

i know why i remember you so well:
it is my warmth which you borrowed
and my heart that you took

The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen

It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together

Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other

It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them

The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write

The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other

if you think you have ignited
a flame of anger in my soul,
you are mistaken.

instead, you have forged winter
in a summer heart
where flowers once grew
and rivers once ran.

you had already made your way deep
into the summer,
found the heat and drought
beyond the breeze,
you had treaded lands
where no one ever has
and seen the parts of my soul
i could never dare to show anyone else,
in trust as steady
as sunny afternoons on the porch.

but you are a catastrophe—
you changed the world's climate
with momentous feelings
and carelessness,
instant gravity
and secrecy—
you have shifted the tides
and now the sun has gone away.

so in this heart,
the season has changed.
the summer has gone
and there is only an aching winter
where the snow is a million feet high
and the moon sinister,
the night is almost unkind,
but it is not angry,
instead it lingers in silence.
the air is so cold
and almost impossible to breathe in,
and there is no longer any warmth
but the coldness of a broken heart.

here
i am
floating
not on a cloud
not carried by space dust
but floating on my own
caught in between
two sides:
i'm not happy and i'm not sad
i'm growing older but i want to stay young
i want to be foolish but wise
and soon i have to go
but i don't want to leave yet

is it so hard for time to slow down?