And yet again…

But it has been a long, long time since real tears actually overflowed from my bloody eyes. I carefully placed a thumb on the little pores of the mouthpiece of my mobile phone to stilfe any sound that might raise questions. I hate questions, I hate them more than my money-bag. And you talked. You talked and talked and talked and talked. Is silence that awkward?

I tried to find a poem the day before yesterday. But then what is the point of finding it if I cannot make it yours, was the fucking thought that stopped me. I put the book back and left. There was a smile in my eyes and a grit in my lips, I knew with more certainty than my life that I will be back here one day, caressing its pages, smelling its glue, smiling at the bright Times New Roman letters. I knew that I will go to you one day and shower the poem onto your chest like withered eucalyptus leaves and wash them with tears of esctasy.

Shit.

I am sorry that I never told you that I was on wait. That I wanted to earn those lines for you. That I would have loved to give you a little surprise and then see you break into a smile. I forgot completely, that tastes of lovers often coincide. I forgot.

I will keep those lines to myself. But I wish you fulfilment in desires that I had to strangle. And more, of course.

And before I cremate it, here is the poem for you.
Dead.
But yours.

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,

Where bashful flowers blow,

And blushing birds go down to drink,

And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows,

That any brook is there,

And yet your little draught of life

Is daily drunken there.

Then, look out for the little brook in March,

When the rivers overflow,

And the snows come hurrying from the hills,

And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be,

When the meadows parching lie,

Beware, lest this little brook of life,

Some burning noon go dry!